


The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

by The_Lochness_Monster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Department of Mysteries, F/F, Hogwarts, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lochness_Monster/pseuds/The_Lochness_Monster
Summary: When Hermione Granger is asked to lead an investigation on behalf of the Department of Mysteries, she returns to England after nearly a decade of self-imposed exile.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 242
Kudos: 769





	1. The Twilight Darkens

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm almost completely tearing up canon's epilogue because let's be honest, it's just not good. Pre-epilogue is [almost] the same.

She breathed in the salt air as it settled around her. It weighed heavily on her shoulders while she stood still. She could feel the mist dampening her hair, before it eventually produced a small droplet that tracked down the side of her face as she stared out into the sea. It would be time soon enough for her to cross it, but the thought of what was waiting for her caused a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool air. 

It had been nine years since she had stepped foot in England. Hermione Granger hardly felt like the same person that had desperately fled from the land that had laid idle witness to her darkest experiences. She knew logically that she was stronger now than she had been when she left; that she had come a long way in overcoming the demons that haunted her. But no matter what reassurances she told herself, her stomach turned.

She clutched a now slightly soggy letter in her left hand. The ink had begun to run. It would have been so much easier had she not opened the damned thing. But what was done was done, and no matter what how desperately she may want to, she could not go back in time and incendio the blasted letter the second the owl had come into view.

She sighed and turned her back to the ocean. With practiced steps, she climbed up the rocky coastline to the grass field that stretched to the tall pine trees that stood about 50 yards away. Hermione followed a flagstone path that lead to a one story shingled cottage situated against the tree-line. 

She pressed the wooden door open to reveal a rather large living room. It was cosy. The ceiling was exposed; two large wooden support beams ran perpendicular to the front of the house. The room was outfitted with worn furniture that implied regular use. Several plush armchairs were slightly stained. Throughout the room laid a great number of books of varying sizes; some were as thick as they were wide, while others looked as though they only contained a handful of pages. 

As she walked through the room Hermione absentmindedly flicked her wand, causing a nearby abandoned mug of tea to fly to the already filled sink. She paused for a moment in front of the brick fireplace. She reached up to the stone mantel and took a pinch of floo powder from a bowl placed on the corner of the surface. Taking a deep breath, she dropped the powder into the lit fire.

“The burrow, England” she said in a shaky voice. 

She crouched down and pushed her head into the green flame.

“Hello?”

As her eyes adjusted to the change in scenery, she could just make out the faint pattering of footsteps in the next room. Soon enough, a man his mid twenties came charging through. He was tall with unkempt red hair that fell just past his ears.

“‘Mione? Is that you?”  
“Hullo Ron” She gave him a watery smile.

“Merlin, it’s good to see you,” He spoke as he walked until he was standing directly in front of the fireplace. “how long has it been? A year? How are you? What have you been up to?”

“Ron? Who is it?” Another redhead, this time an exceedingly pregnant woman, came into view. “Hermione?” The woman’s jaw dropped. 

“Ginny!” Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight of the woman’s stomach. “I didn’t realize you were this far along”

“8 months. Bugger should be popping out any day now. Never mind that, are you alright? Why haven’t you called lately?”

“I just called you the other week.”

“Hermione that was last summer.” 

Hermione looked at the two in shock. “Surely it couldn’t have been that long.” She said weakly.

“It was on my birthday.”  
“Oh.” Surprise flicked across her face before she remembered why she was calling in the first place. It swiftly returned to an anxious expression. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t realize it had been that long. I’ve been doing some intense-“

“Research, we know. I’m not mad, Hermione. I just miss you. I want you to be a part of James’ and this guys’ life.” Ginny said as she rubbed her stomach.

“I know, I just- I just haven’t thought going back would be good for me. But I got a letter from Shacklebolt today. He wants me to come on for a research project the Department of Mysteries is conducting.”

“That’s brilliant!” Ron blurted before being smacked in the arm by Ginny.

“Do you want to do it?”

“I- I’m not sure to be honest. I mean it’s a fascinating project, I can’t tell you much, of course, but suffice to say what I’d be doing would be groundbreaking. In fact, from what I can gather it could pave the way for a whole new-“

There was a knock on her cottage door. 

“One second!” She turned her head slightly to call out to the visitor, before hurriedly whispering to the Weasleys, “I have to go. Would it be alright if I came to visit on Wednesday? Shacklebolt wants to talk in person.” 

“Of course! It’ll be brilliant, I can’t wait.” Ron said.

Hermione gave the pair a tight smile before yanking her head out of the fireplace. She walked quickly to the door, her right hand staying in her pocket, firmly gripping her wand. Cautiously, she pulled it open. She let the grip loosen when she saw who was on the other side. 

A young woman faced her. She had long, rather thin brown hair that reached well past her shoulders. She wore a navy red sox hat, a zipped black mid thigh length raincoat, and dark loose jeans that were tucked into a pair of L.L Bean boots. The woman was leaning on one arm that was propped up against the doorframe with an unimpressed expression on her face. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know the time wouldja?”

Hermione gave her a confused look before slapping the palm of her hand to her forehead. 

“Coffee. Shit. I’m so sorry Anne. I got a letter from home and completely forgot. Let me grab my bag and we can go.” She turned around and picked up a black purse from a large couch with sunken cushions. 

“From home? You mean England?”

“Yes, one of my old,” she paused a moment, “colleagues reached out about conducting research over there.”

The pair walked towards a beat up old pickup that was parked in the dirt driveway.

“So you’d be going back?”

“If I accept it, yes.”

Anne cast Hermione a worried look. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“No, not at all.”

Anne opened the door and slid into the drivers seat. They sat in silence as she reversed out of the narrow drive and onto the paved road. It was only few minutes before they pulled in front of a run-down diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess where Hermione is?


	2. The Curlew Calls

“So.” Anne started off cautiously, speaking in a low voice as she cupped her mug of coffee. “How long would the job be for?”

“I’m not sure. I’m Skyping with him tomorrow, hopefully I’ll get a bit more detail then.”

“Skype eh? You sure you can figure out how to do that?” 

Hermione scoffed. “I’m not that bad with computers.”

Anne’s eyebrow arched upward.  
“Really? I guess it was just a coincidence that you’ve fried not one, not two, but three separate laptops in the last year alone?” 

“Unfortunate freak accidents. Besides, one of those was because I spilt tea on the keyboard.” 

“Hmm. Regardless you still haven’t figured out a Myspace page. I had to put Sam Collins as my number 8. Sam. Fucking. Collins. You know I can stand the asshole.”

“It’s been a great inconvenience for you I’m sure. I offer my most sincerest of apologies.” Hermione responded dryly. 

The corners of Anne’s mouth quirked up. “Do you want me to set it up for you? I can come around tomorrow mornin’ before work.”

“It’s alright, I’ll be fine I’m sure.”

A large man slumped into the booth next to Hermione making her jump and spill some of her tea.

“God Jack, don’t do that.” Hermione admonished.

“I can’t move. I refuse.” The man, Jack, said dramatically as he put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Captain had us put down eighty new traps today. Eighty. Eight fuckin’ zero. And, AND, we had to pull up 150 others. I’ve been workin’ non stop for- what time is it?”

“Three thirty.”

“For,” He scrunched up his nose as he thought, “Nine and a half hours!”

“Ten and a half hours.”

“Exactly! Ten and a half hours! I won’t move!” Jack banged his hand on the table in emphasis.

He had wide, built shoulders that made him look even larger than he was. His beard, like the rest of him, was large and unruly. He wore an old dirty hoody and even older, even dirtier jeans. 

“You regrettin’ those beers last night? I told you it was a bad idea.” Anne spoke strictly, but her eyes twinkled with humor. 

“The beers aren’t the problem. The problem is waking up at 3:15 after bein’ up ’til 12. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Here’s a wild idea I’ll give ya free of charge. Don’t go drinkin’ when you gotta be on the water at 4 in the mornin’.”

He stood suddenly and reached over the table to give Anne a fat, wet kiss on her cheek.

“A genius! Hear that folks? I’m sittin’ with a genius!” He called out to the rest of the diner, half of whom, largely tourists if the paper maps were anything to go by, looked on bewildered, while the other half barely glanced up. 

Hermione punched him in the arm. 

“Shush you.”

Jack put his arm around Hermione to pull her against his side. 

“My apologies,” he bellowed, “I’m sitting with two geniuses.”

Their waitress, a plump middle-aged woman, spoke loudly from the heating rack.

“Jack be quiet or I’ll call your mother.”

Jack mumbled something under his breath. 

“What was that?” The waitress said.

“Nothing, ma’am, just admirin’ the coffee.”

“Mhmm.”

Jack turned back to the two women. 

“So what are we doin’ tonight? Hermione you up for Rosie’s? I know how you love Karaoke night.” He winked at her. 

“What happened to can’t move? I liked you better like that.”

“You wound me.”

“I can’t tonight. I have an interview tomorrow.”

“A Skype interview.” Anne interrupted.

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“No. Say it ain’t so Hermione. Surely there’s another way to do your interview? Telegraph perhaps?”

“Ha Ha. As I told Anne, I’ll be fine.”“Sure ya will. What’s it for anyway? Another fancy fish biology thingy?”

“No, not another thingy. It’s not entirely related to what I’ve been working on. To be honest, I’m not completely sure why they even asked me. Of course, it could be related to my research a few years ago, but surely they’d rather have someone who is currently researching that.” Hermione waved her hands about as she rambled. “I mean, it would be extremely interesting, and a fantastic opportunity to delve into an entire sub-discipline I’ve barely even dreamed of.”

“You lost me at thingy.” Hermione glared at Jack. “Where is it anyway? Down in Portland?”

Anne shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

“No, actually it’s back home. In London.”

“New London you mean? That’s four hours from here!”

“London, England” Hermione gave him a pained smile.

“Oh. Right. Like the country across the Atlantic.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll take it, it’s just an interview.”Jack gave her a sad smile. “Yeah. Well, whateva’ you end up doin’ you know I’ll support you.”

“I know.”

“Well she’ll have to manage to not break her computer, so who knows? Maybe she won’t even get to the interview.” Anne said in an attempt to inject some levity into the situation. Jack clutched onto it like a lifeline.

“Another great point m’lady. You’ll neva’ leave Hermione! Cursed to an eternity on this picture perfect island.”

“An attempt to break the curse does seem futile.”

Jack brightened. “Comeon then, just one drink at Rosies. I’ll even buy.”

“It’s free to ladies on Mondays Jack.”

“Is it? What a coincidence.”

After Anne and Hermione had paid, Jack apparently only having come to talk, the pair drove back to Hermione’s cottage, talking casually about the latest small town gossip. According to Anne, Mr. Curbin had been caught by his wife, who had come to his office unannounced to bring him lunch, in a rather compromising position with the new librarian. Hermione was grateful for the distraction and was reluctant to leave the truck when they pulled up to the house. 

“One step in front of the otha’ Hermione. It’s just a call, it’s not like you’re goin’ back yet. Who knows, you might not even get it. And if you do, you don’t have to go if you don’t wantta. It’s shapin’ up to be a great summa’.” Anne reached over the center console to hug her. 

“Thank you Anne. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Wallowin’ in self pity, I’d imagine. You sure you want to go tonight? I can say your Aunt Flow came to visit” Anne wagged her eyebrows as Hermione laughed. 

“No I want to go. Besides I used that excuse last week.”

“Alright, I’ll pick you up in three hours ok?”

“Perfect, see you soon!”

—————————————————————————

Exactly three hours later Hermione was waiting patiently on one of the rocks that lined her driveway. If there was one thing her parents had instilled in her it was the importance of being on time. She thought back to one holiday when her father had made their family get to the airport five hours early, despite it being a short flight to Paris, and all of them being EU citizens. Her mother, in an attempt to fight off Hermione’s boredom, had tried to teach her eight year old daughter about the plane they would shortly be boarding, but unfortunately for her and her husband, Jean Granger had a very limited knowledge of planes, and thus was shortly out of facts to give to her increasingly curious daughter. Hermione had then decided to interview as many pilots as she could find, to serve as primary sources of course, until she her thirst for knowledge was properly satisfied.

The thought brought back painful memories. She could still see their fearful faces directed at her before she forced them to do the very thing many parents would fear the most- making them forget their child’s existence. Their blank looks after her whispered obliviate still made their rounds in her seemingly endless barrage of nightmares.

After the war, she had tried to undo the damage she had inflicted, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t figure out how to return the genuine memories. There had never been an instance of authentic memories being put back into an obliviated persons mind, false memories, certainly, but never authentic. The smartest witch of her age, and she was well and properly stumped. For two months she stayed in a downtrodden motel on the outskirts of the city the Grangers had moved to. An entire team of St. Mungo’s finest memory specialists had been unable to place a single one of Hermione’s parents’ original memories back into their conscious. 

Hermione could see the healers’ pitying looks as they abandoned the case when she closed her eyes. It had been the final straw. Without saying goodbye, or indeed even returning to England, Hermione booked an international portkey from Australia to New York. She had planned to get lost in the sea of people. To fade into the background. Instead, she found the city suffocating. There were too many noises that sounded like bombardas. Too many lights that flashed the same bright green as an Avada Kedavra. She hadn’t even lasted a week before she was fleeing north to Boston. 

That wasn’t better. The people there couldn’t sympathize with a 19 year old war veteran. Her peers spent their time agonizing over the quality of their fake ids, while Hermione agonized over the faces of the dead that played on loop in her head. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Lavender. Colin. A wordless mantra that repeated ad nauseam. 

Another week later and she was traveling north again- apparating to a lighthouse she had seen on a postcard in the travel office lobby. Eventually she ended up on a small island off the mid-coast of Maine. The people there liked their own space. There were hardly any buildings, let alone lights, to remind Hermione of The Battle. 

It was easy enough to pretend to be a marine biologist. The locals didn’t care much as long as the rent was on time, and tips were generous. She had been here for nearly the entirety of the nine years she’d spent away from England. 

Twice, she’d met up with Ron, Harry, and Ginny- once in Spain, the other in Italy. Each time she had left feeling drained and discouraged. While the others had found their footing in society, Ginny as a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, Ron and Harry as Aurors, and all three with successful personal lives, Hermione had flittered from research project to research project, never quite settling on any topic, and all the while unable to form any semblance of a significant relationship. She didn’t understand why she was incapable of moving forward in her life while the others could so seamlessly transition to civilian life. Did they not have nightmares haunt their sleep? Did they not flinch whenever someone grabbed their shoulder from behind? Did they not dissociate whenever they heard a high pitched laugh?

Hermione was thrust out of her revere by the sound of Anne’s truck. Eager to escape her thoughts, she ran to the passenger door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew typing a Maine accent could be so annoying?
> 
> p.s. I know Lavender only dies in the movies, but we're just gonna roll with it.  
> p.p.s. I take ~some~ liberties with choosing stuff from the books vs the movies. I'll try and tell you when I do.


	3. The traveller hastens toward the town

“Eager are we?”

“Couldn’t fathom being apart for another second.”

“Well said!”

A few minutes later they were pulling up to a one story, wide, shingled building that was built on a sturdy looking pier. Hermione could hear music and people’s laughter when she opened the truck door, shivering slightly as she pulled her jean jacket closer. The several string lights that hung off protruding posts gave an ambiance of warmth that was lacking in the otherwise brisk air. People milled around outside of the building, holding beer cans and huddling close to small fire pits that were spattered about the pier. Some turned to them as they approached. 

“Anne! English!” A small thin woman pushed through a group of men and ran up to them. Hermione quickly found herself enveloped in a crushing hug. She laughed.

“Sarah! I just saw you on Thursday.”

“I know, but I _missed_ you. The kids are driving me crazy.”

“I’ll come babysit on Friday if you want. Give Brian and you a night off?” 

“Oh that’d amazing! I mean, if you don’t mind. I know you’re wicked busy with whatever it is you’re researching.”

Hermione waved her off. “How about you buy me a drink and we’ll it even?” 

Sarah beamed. “You got it. Bourbon right?”

Hermione nodded and Sarah shot off towards the building. 

“I don’t know how you drink that. I mean, the real nice stuff I get, but you know they have the cheapest money can buy right?”

“The alternative is that pitiful excuse for beer you like.”  


“Pitiful!” Anne scoffed, “It’s won a dozen awards!”

“It doesn’t matter how many awards it’s won it still tastes like soap.”

They made their way to the fire pit Jack and a handful of others were huddled around. The light from the fire flickered across their faces as they laughed at something Jack had said. He was clutching a beer can, another stood unopened on the ground by his foot. At the sight of the two, he quickly grabbed the spare beer and pushed it towards Anne. 

“Where’s my drink Jack?” Hermione asked as she smiled openly to others. 

“Turns out beer is the only free drink tonight. And, because I know you, I figured you wouldn’t want one.”

She didn’t have a response to that. Sarah returned carrying her glass of bourbon. Hermione swirled it about as she looked around. Her mind was quiet. It was easy for her to get lost in the carefree conversation, slowly becoming engrossed in the mundane talk of bad bosses and unfair wages. While she may not relate, for a moment she could imagine that she was the same as the rest. She wished she were. 

There was a loud crack. Suddenly, Hermione found herself back at The Battle, just barely dodging an arrant bombarda that flew into a nearby tree, severing a large branch that fell directly on top of a nameless sixth year Ravenclaw. There was a sickening snap as it made contact with the girls head. Hermione could feel a pressure on her right arm. She couldn’t figure what it was from. If it was a curse, it was an odd one. The grip tightened. A soft voice tickled her ear. She strained to try hear what the voice was saying. 

“You’re safe. You’re at Rosies. You’re safe. You’re next to a warm fire, can you feel it? You’re safe. Can you feel my hand?”

Hermione blinked rapidly. Slowly, the pier came back to view. Her friends were still standing around the fire pit. Anne’s arm was looped around Hermione’s, her hand clasping the later’s forearm. Hermione turned to her. 

  
“Thank you” She whispered. 

To Hermione’s immense relief, it hadn’t seemed as though the others had noticed her episode. They were still talking about Mr. Curbin’s indiscretions. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

“Do you want to go?” 

“No, I’m alright, really. It wasn’t long.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Anne nodded, but her eyes showed concern as she stared down her friend. They knew Hermione had served in the war. They weren’t entirely sure which war, where it was, or who it was against, but the results were undeniable and abundantly evident. She certainly wasn’t alone in her suffering- plenty of veterans found solace on the quiet island that was largely forgotten about by the rest of the country.

The scar on her left arm tingled unpleasantly as it always did after one of her flashbacks. She felt a pang of disappointment at herself. She had been doing so well. She hadn’t had an episode in nearly four months, but despite all her progress, a wet log that heated too quickly could revert her back to her first weeks spent in America.

“Hermione what do you think? Librarian hot enough to risk it?”

She turned sharply to face Sam Collins. She could practically feel Anne’s effort to not roll her eyes.

“I haven’t seen her yet, Jack?”

He nodded seriously.

“I’m not saying I would, but I’m not not saying I wouldn’t, ya know?”

“What?”

“The Sox won!” A booming voice interrupted from the doorway of the building. A cheer rang out from those outside. 

“I fuckin’ knew we could do it, what did I tell ya? Ortiz has never looked better. World Series is ours this year, I’m callin’ it now!” Jack announced.

The conversation quickly turned to baseball, and Hermione allowed her mind to wander. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t find any redeemable qualities to watching the sport, she had gave it a valiant effort after the first year spent on the island. It was just so _boring_. Virtually everyone in town acted as though their personal happiness was directly tied to the successfulness of the Red Sox. She decided to take some solace in the fact that no matter where she was in the world, people were inexplicably drawn to sporting events, even if she herself felt to no such desire. 

She was worried about returning to England. While she could lie to herself about an astonishing number of things, Hermione found herself unable to pretend like she wasn’t set on returning. The moment she read the letter she had been drawn in. Perhaps that was Shacklebolt’s intention all along. If Hermione didn’t have such a high opinion of Ron and Harry she would consider the possibility they had coerced the Minister to penning the letter for the sole purpose of bringing her back to the UK. 

Eventually the conversation drifted away from sports, quickly transitioning to plans for the summer, nearly all of which revolved around Sam’s dad’s pontoon boat. Hermione would be sorry to miss all of it. She decided to visit at some point. Perhaps for the fourth of July. 

Sarah kept returning with a new drink whenever Hermione managed to finish her current one. Sooner than Hermione had expected, Anne was tugging on the hem of her sweater.

“Ready to go?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly 11:00, I figured you’d want to get back earlier rather later.”

Hermione nodded before turning back to the group.

“We’re off guys, see you later.”

Jack stumbled over to her and gave her a bear hug.

“Good luck tomorrow!” He had attempted to whisper, but it came out at a normal volume.

“Good luck!” Nearly everyone chorused.

Hermione gave them a wide smile. It was one of her favorite parts about the people here. They didn’t need to know everything. If gossip was willingly given it was free game, but no one ever pried. 

As they walked by the fire pit closest to the parking lot, someone wolf whistled. Without turning, Anne raised her free arm to flip the group off. The sound of laughter followed them to the truck.

Anne followed Hermione to the passenger side to pull open the door for her. Hermione stumbled slightly as she climbed in. Anne quickly wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist to steady her, but Hermione’s momentum pulled them down into the seat. They were close. Anne’s right leg was pressed against Hermione’s. Her breath hitched as she felt a sudden desire to tuck an errant strand of Hermione’s hair behind her ear. Before she could act, Hermione gave an undignified snort.

“Sorry. I think Sarah and Sam had a bet on how many drinks I’d have.”  
  
Anne gave a strained laugh. “Let’s get you home alright?”

Hermione gave a lazy salute while Anne reached over her to secure her buckle. Anne paused for a moment before rapidly standing up and walking over to the driver’s side. Once inside, she opened her mouth to talk, but was cut off by a soft snore. She smiled. They made the trip back to the cottage quietly. When they arrived, Anne nudged Hermione gently. Anne wrapped her arm around Hermione’s waist to support her as they walked to the front door. 

“Will you be alright tonight?”

“Yeah” Hermione said through flickering eyes, her head lolling slightly backwards.

“Ok,” Anne hesitated, “You have to be up 7 remember?”

“7. Yeah. I know. For the minister.”

Anne looked at her bewildered. She figured Hermione was confused in her state of mind, and decided to let the comment slide.

“You got it. What time do you have to be up?"  


“7”

“Ok then. I’m going.” She walked a few feet back towards her truck before turning back around as if to say something, but Hermione had already disappeared behind the heavy wood door. 

* * *

There was an incessant pounding in her head. Her tongue darted out to dampen parched lips. She could taste the stale alcohol that lingered well past its welcome. Moaning at the morning light that filtered past her curtains, she reached clumsily for her wand on the bedside table. Wordlessly, she conjured a small cup and filled it with water. She drank greedily. Once she felt marginally better, Hermione cautiously got out of bed, a wave of nausea immediately hitting her, cascading against the inside of her head in an unrelenting and overpowering manner. She grit her teeth and walked into the main room of her modest house. Her bare legs protested the cold air by breaking out in goosebumps. 

She opened one of the cupboard doors and pulled out a small vial filled with a viscous green liquid, pausing momentarily to steel her nerves before she knocked it back. She shuddered at the unpleasant taste. The effects were immediate- her head suddenly felt clear and she had a surge of energy that was desperately needed. 

Hermione glanced at the oven clock: 6:50 am. She sighed. Slowly, she dressed in comfortable jeans and a chunky cable knit sweater. The lack of in-person contact to the formal wizarding world left her closet severely lacking in appropriate wizarding clothing, causing her to dig through the back of her closet for a dusty black robe that she hadn’t been sure she still owned. She secured her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck with a hair tie, looked into the small mirror above her bureau, and nodded to herself, satisfied. While the potion she had taken had cured her hangover, it did nothing to fix the dark circles under her eyes that had been a perpetually lingered for nearly ten years. They hardly bothered her. 

She went back into the kitchen to check the time. 7:00. Biting her lip, she decided to clean the dishes that were threatening to overflow from the sink by hand. Once she was done, she shifted her attention to the counters, enthusiastically scrubbing them down until they shone brighter than the day she had bought the house. The clock read 7:35. She grabbed a smaller bag than the one she had brought to Rosie’s the night before and slung it across her body. Unable to further delay the inevitable, Hermione turned on her heel and disappeared with a pop.

She appeared inside a lobby of a brick building. There were several people milling about who barely glanced at her before continuing along. Most were dressed in similar attire to Hermione. The lobby wasn’t particularly large, but the ceiling was elevated high enough to give it a cavernous feeling. A wood reception desk sat directly opposite Hermione. A middle aged woman was seated behind it, looking exceptionally bored as she wrote. 

Hermione walked up to her. 

“Hi, I called yesterday about an international portkey trip to England?”

The woman spoke without looking up. 

  
“Name?”

“Hermione Granger.”  


At this, she gave Hermione an appraising look. Hermione tensed. She always hated the attention her role in the war had given her, it was yet another one of the many reasons she had fled England. Thankfully, the woman otherwise didn’t indicate the name meant anything to her. 

“Second floor, back office. There’s a group of 3 departing with you.”

Hermione nodded and thanked the woman. She rode up the elevator alone. At the second floor, she exited and walked briskly across the room. There were roughly a dozen desks spattered about the room in no apparent pattern, each with a witch or wizard working with various levels of diligence behind it. None of them gave her a second look. 

She knocked on the door that was labelled _Europe._ A short, squat wizard opened the door. He smiled at her kindly before speaking.

“Ms. Granger?” At her nod he continued. “Come on in. We’re just waiting for one more.”

He stepped aside to reveal a small room where two other people were standing looking at her. A witch, who looked no older than 20, gaped at Hermione, her jaw slightly dropped. The other person, a lanky man roughly the same age as the other witch, looked marginally more composed but still stared. 

The wizard who let her in cleared his throat. 

“Ah, I’m Charlie by the way. Head of travel for the Portland office.” He offered his hand for Hermione to shake. She did, thankful for the interruption. The others snapped out of their stupor. 

“Damon Ashe. It’s an honor to meet you Ms. Granger.” The wizard spoke in a posh, calm voice. Hermione gave him a strained smile in acknowledgment. He nudged his companion with his elbow.

“I’m Blair. Blair Bagmont.” The witch said slightly breathlessly. “I can’t believe you’re here! I mean who would have thought! No one knows where you’ve been! Are you on vacation too? We were visiting my cousins, Hubert, he’s the oldest, just graduated from Ilvermorny. It’s so different from Hogwarts, let me tell you.” She spoke quickly, barely pausing for breath. 

“That’s nice.” Hermione ignored the question.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks when there was a knock on the door just as Blair had opened her mouth to speak again. A man stepped inside without waiting for an answer. He appeared to be middle age, but something about him made Hermione think he was older than his appearance seemed. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Hermione, but he otherwise gave no indication he recognized her.

“Mr. Barracus, welcome, welcome. That’s everyone!” Charlie said happily. “Hands on the plank and I’ll send you on your way!” 

They all reached out to grab a wooden plank about two feet in length. “London” was inscribed on the top. 

“Everyone ready then? Portus.” 

  
Nothing happened for few seconds. Suddenly, Hermione felt a violent tug in her stomach, pulling her away from the small room. A few moments later and she felt herself fall on the cold tile of a large stone chamber. 

“7:45 from Portland, Maine.” A bored voice drawled. 

A strong hand appeared in front of Hermione. She took it, feeling the smooth skin that was slightly cold to the touch. Her eyes flicked up to its owner, slightly surprised to see it was the man that was last to enter the room in Portland. 

She thanked him when she was back on her feet. He gave her a polite nod before turning on his heel and walking away. 

“Hermione? Can I call you Hermione? Can I have your autograph?” Blair’s nasally voice sounded loudly from behind Hermione. Several people, who had previously ignored the group, snapped their heads to look in their direction.

Sighing, Hermione reached for the quill and parchment that Blair held outstretched between the two of them. _Welcome back_ , she thought bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I know "er" endings are supposed to be "ah" for it to really be a Maine accent, but I thought it got kind of difficult to read. 
> 
> I think the American wizarding world would be more laid back than its British counterpart. They would use telephones (because really why wouldn't they), and not dress as formally as UK wizards.


	4. Darkness Settles on Roofs and Walls

It had taken nearly 15 minutes until Hermione had managed to extract herself from the unwanted attention her arrival had created. She had rushed to the elevator, endured even more staring from its occupants, and finally arrived at Level 1. Unlike the Portland branch, this office was orderly. The rows of desks were meticulously spaced, reminding Hermione of the Great Hall during her O.W.L examinations. She kept her head down as she walked towards the secretary’s desk located in front of a large set of double doors at the far end of the room. 

“Hi, I have an appointment with the Minister.” Hermione tried to emulate Professor McGonagall’s confident cadence, but felt that she had come up spectacularly short.

“One moment please Ms. Granger.” The woman, a serious looking 40 year old, replied as she stood. 

A nearby worker who until that point had been sedulously working, looked up, only to hastily drop his gaze back to his papers at the stern glare the secretary had given him. Hermione immediately liked the woman.

The secretary walked the short distance to the doors and gave two curt knocks. A moment later, they were opened to reveal Kingsley Shacklebolt looking almost exactly as he had a decade earlier. 

“Hermione! Come, come.” He motioned for her to join him inside. They settled in two comfortable chairs that faced each other at the front of the office. 

“Welcome home Hermione. I must say, I wish it were under different circumstances, but it’s important to consider the silver linings in times like these, don’t you think?”

Even Hermione’s curiosity to his word choice couldn’t distract her from the vehement reaction she felt at the word “home.” She wondered when she had stopped associating England with the word. She couldn’t remember. 

“What circumstances are they exactly? Your letter was exceptionally vague.”

“Apologies for that. I wasn’t completely sure where you were, and I couldn’t risk the letter getting intercepted.”

Hermione was thankful he didn’t ask where she had been. It felt private somehow, like it was an embarrassing story from her childhood she had never told anyone before.

“What do you know of Pictish Ruins?” He continued.

“It’s been a few years since I’ve conducted my research, but nearly all of them have clear indications of a magical influence. It’s probable that the Pictish people coexisted with the magical community. Their non-magical people, unlike the Brittonic people’s, likely did not consider those of magic to be a higher power, and thus did not ostracize the magical community as was the case in ancient England. Due to this, virtually all of their communities were more prosperous than Britania’s.”

“Have you any experience with reading their runes?”

“Some. I haven’t done any in person, but I did review many while writing Ancient Runes and their Modern Implications.” 

“I’ll be honest, Hermione: we’re out of our depth here. What I’m about to tell you is completely confidential and I ask you to not discuss this with anyone not directly involved.” He paused until Hermione gave a nod of agreement. “Three days ago a group of Unspeakables were investigating magical ruins inside Arthur’s Seat, when they inadvertently triggered some type of defensive mechanism. It caused a small army of  inferi to rise and attack the researchers. While we were preoccupied with this attack, another group of inferi were unleashed in Canongate Kirkyard. Over 40 muggles were attacked: 23 dead, 17 injured and treated at St. Mungos. It was the largest attack since the war.”

Hermione drew in a sharp breath. Of all reasons she had imagined Kingsley to write her, she never considered this. 

“Why haven’t I heard about the attack?” 

While she may not have returned to the UK, Hermione Granger was not one to be purposefully ignorant. She still had subscriptions to The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, and The Times. Part of her had always feared that one day she’d see one of her friend’s faces strewn across the front-page with an accompanying obituary on pages 2, 3, and 4. It was a fear that, while certainly diminishing as the years passed, never completely went away. 

“We’ve put pressure on the Prophet to wait to release the official account while we figure this out. It’s been a complete disaster. 217 muggles needed memory altering, and the muggle Prime Minister had been breathing down my neck to solve this. I believe the muggles spun it as a pipe explosion of sorts.”

She remembered seeing something similar the other day in The Times, but the absence of any mention of a disruption in either of the english magical subscriptions she had, led her to believe it truly was a muggle tragedy brought on by the rapidly warming weather. 

“I suppose you can’t tell me about the particulars of the runes?”

“Not until you agree to a silencing vow, no.”

She hummed, a thoughtful look on her face.

“I can’t tell you any more, but if you agree to work with us, you’ll have complete access to the entirety of the Unspeakable team’s research. They’ve been working in similar sites for a little over two decades.”

“Surely I can’t provide any information they don’t already have?”

“Hermione, you’re not called the brightest witch of your age for nothing.” He said with a gentle smile. “Besides, your research into the indigenous people of Newfoundland’s territorial warding has some similarities to our case. At least, that’s what I’m told by our expert. I won’t pretend to understand half of what you do.”

Well that was interesting. What would cause the similarities? And why would the Unspeakables only now be experiencing difficulties with the ruins if they’ve been working with them for decades? 

Minister Shaklebolt looked on with a pleased expression as Hermione thought. If there was one thing he knew about her, it was that she could never let a mystery remain a mystery if she could help it. It had, admittedly, been one of the reasons he remained so vague. He hadn’t been lying when he had told her he couldn’t discuss everything, but he neglected to mention certain aspects of the case that he, as the Minister, certainly could divulge. 

Hermione was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she started slightly at the sound of Kingsley’s deep voice.

“Take the day to think it over. Harry mentioned lunch at the Burrow when he asked for the day yesterday. Floo me tomorrow, I’ll have Department of Magical Transportation set up a connection for, shall we say, 2 pm English time? I’d just need the name of the fireplace to connect to.”

“That would be great. Connect the Treehouse in Quebec.”

He gave her a curious look at the name, but chose to not mention it.

“I’ll let them know right away. I’m afraid I have another meeting, otherwise I’d walk you out. Do you remember your way to the atrium?”

Hermione nodded dumbly. How could she forget. It was moments like this that Hermione had a difficult time reconciling her past with her present. Sneaking into the ministry to steal Umbridge’s locket simultaneously felt like just the other week and a lifetime away. Sometimes it felt as though her experiences in the war had happened to a completely different person, and Hermione had unknowingly been given the memories. 

The stood and walked to the door. Kingsley opened his arms slightly as though to offer a hug to Hermione, before thinking better of it and letting them swing limply by his side.

“I’ll let you know. Thank you, Minister.”

“It’ll always be Kingsley to you Hermione.”

She retraced her steps to the elevator and rode it down to the atrium. To avoid the prying stares, she pulled out a small book from her magically expanded bag and stuck her nose in it. She hardly absorbed the content, a rather dry discussion of the practical applications of wiggentree bark, instead using the book as an excuse to avoid any and all interactions with others.

Soon enough, she was deposited to the main atrium. She walked past the guards. She was shocked to find a fountain that was eerily similar to the Fountain of Magical Brethren standing tall in the middle. There were minor changes, of course: the elves and goblins no longer looked up adoringly at the witch and wizard, but now stood proudly on either side. The humans were, however, standing on an elevated platform that placed them much higher than even the centaur. It seemed the English magical community had not made much progress in acceptance to magical beings as Hermione had hoped.

Unwilling to stare at the fountain any longer, she quickly turned on her heel and disappeared with a loud pop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was a bit delayed! I'm in the process of moving and things are a bit hectic. 
> 
> Did you really think Hermione would go anywhere without a trusty book? In this economy?
> 
> Next up is the Burrow and some much needed ~~vibes~~ 
> 
> Hope you like it!


	5. But the Sea, the Sea in the Darkness Calls

She landed in a large field roughly 300 yards from the Burrow. She could just make out the precariously built house in the distance. Hermione gave an involuntary shudder when she remembered that her last stay had ended in her life being irrevocably altered. It would do no good to dwell on the past, however, and she quickly put those thoughts to the back of her mind where they belonged, and hurried forward. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what she walking into. Perhaps she should have made it clear she had no desire for the large reunion that would surely occur if all the Weasleys were made aware of her impromptu trip.

Before she could muse further, she was standing in front of the front knocking. She hardly had rapped twice when the door was ripped open, revealing none other than her first friend: Harry Potter. Neither she nor he had anytime to speak before Hermione found herself on the receiving end of a crushing hug. She allowed herself to melt into the hug in a way she was loath to do with others. 

She could feel him shaking slightly as they embraced. She tighten her grip. Harry eventually loosened his, allowing his arms, which had previously been wrapped around Hermione’s shoulders, rest softly at the base of her neck as he withdrew. His eyes were misty. 

Hermione was rather startled to realize that her own were as well. 

“It’s so good to see you ‘Mione. I’ve missed you.”

She nodded in lieu of speaking. She found her tongue as heavy as it was unresponsive. Instead, she pulled him into another quick hug. 

“How was the portkey? Not too bad?”

“No, although the Ministry was a nightmare.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I can imagine. People can be ruthless.”

“What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d still be at work.”  


“And miss you?” He scoffed, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Hermione remembered Kingsley had mentioned that Harry had asked for the day. She had, wrongfully, assumed his request would be denied. She supposed there were certain perks to be being the savior of the wizarding world. 

“Is that Hermione?” A loud voice called out from the kitchen. In a second Hermione found herself on the receiving end of another overbearing hug, this time courtesy of none other than Molly Weasley. 

“Oh it’s so good to see you dear.” Her cheerful face turned serious before she smacked Hermione in the arm. “Don’t you dare go another year without talking.”

Hermione had the decency to look ashamed. 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Weasley, I hadn’t realized it had been that long.”  


“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s Molly.”

“Sorry Molly.”

“You can make it up to me by eating. Really you’ve gotten so skinny it’s a wonder you haven’t withered away yet. Come, come!” She started moving back to the kitchen. 

Hermione, knowing better than to try and argue with the Weasley matriarch, made the wise decision to follow. 

“Where is everyone?”

“Ginny had to go watch tryouts. She should be back soon. Ron was called in for one of the cases he’s working on, it was some sort of emergency.” At Hermione’s alarmed look, Harry rushed to reassure her. “It’s fine! Just backup I think. Nothing too serious or my team would have been called in as well.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. What about the rest?”

“We figured it might be easier if tonight was just us. We can call the others if you want?” 

“No no, this is perfect.”

“I was hoping…” He gave Hermione a sheepish look. “I was hoping you would want to meet the boys?”

Hermione’s face broke out into a wide smile. “I’d love to! Where are they?”

“Down for a nap. James should be up soon- I reckon he’s got more energy in one pinky than even you have during revision time.”

She shot him a glare without any malice. “I didn’t have an abnormal amount of energy I just-“

“Scheduled well. Yeah yeah.”

They sat at the kitchen table. Two overflowing plates were placed in front of them. 

“Molly, I just ate. You fed me.”

“Harry I know they don’t give you enough time for proper meals when you’re working. We have to prepare you!”

Hermione grinned into her food as she ate. Harry kicked her in the shin under the table. Harry and Molly spent the next several minutes talking about the missing Weasleys. Hermione half listened as she ate. It really was good food. She was eventually drawn back into the conversation at Molly’s words.

“-and his first date with that Marchbanks girl was a complete and utter disaster! I _told_ him he should have cut his hair. Would it kill the boy to trim it or at least take out that damned earring!”

“Bill likes it. Besides, I don’t think the Marchbanks woman would have been a good fit. The guys on Laughlan’s team told me she’s been working down the veteran list.”

“Sorry, did you say Bill was on a date?” Hermione interjected, perplexed.

The pair turned to her. Molly was first to answer.

“Of course, what do you expect him to do after that _woman_ ,” she said with a hint of disdain, “left him? Just wither away?”

Hermione was properly confused now. Cautiously she asked, “Fleur,” Molly’s scowl deepened. “and Bill split?”

“Blimey Hermione I forgot how long you’ve been gone. Yeah, they _mutually,_ ” Harry gave a stern look to Molly, “decided they were better as friends. I think it was about two years ago now.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t really find any other words. She had never considered Fleur and Bill breaking up. They had seemed so very much in love every time Hermione had seen the couple. It was one the things that she disliked about Fleur. If she were being honest, she had been envious of the effortless affection they showed one another, it was as though _not_ holding hands underneath the dinner table when they thought no one was looking would bring them unbearable pain. Hermione had found it hard to hold hands with Ron even when they were in Australia, thousands of miles away from everyone they knew. It hadn’t necessarily been uncomfortable, but pleasant was never a word Hermione would use to describe it. 

She was spared from anymore talk of Bill and Fleur by the sound of soft pattering footsteps. A miniature clone of Harry’s burst into the room a moment later.

“Daddy! Can I have a snack _please_?” 

Harry chuckled. “In a minute James. We have a very special guest.”

James turned to Hermione, surprised. His face quickly morphed into a gleeful expression when he recognized her. 

“Aunt Mio!” He yelped as he ran up to her and wrapped his small arms around her middle.

Hermione froze before cautiously returning the gesture. She hadn’t expected any recognition at all; the idea that James even knew who she was, never mind that he thought highly enough of her to hug her without question, warmed her heart. 

“Hi James! It’s so nice to meet you.” 

“Where have you been? Uncle Ron says you were fighting dragons, but mommy said you were fighting dust mites. What are dust mites?”

Harry and Molly laughed as Hermione unsuccessfully tried to smother her own. 

“I was studying a lot of things. But I’m way more interested in what you,” She poked his stomach playfully, “have been doing.”

He gave her a serious look. “I don’t work Aunt Mio. I’m only 3 and a half.” 

The front door slammed open before Hermione could respond. She jumped and felt her heart beat quicken. Her hands felt clammy as she automatically reached for her wand. Ron appeared in the doorway, a huge grin covering his face causing his eyes to squint. Hermione let her hand drop back to her lap. She didn’t see Harry’s watchful gaze on her. 

“Hermione!” Ron bellowed. She found herself once again smothered by a pair of arms. She found she didn’t mind. 

“Ron!”

“James!” James added, clearly wanting to be a part of the excitement. 

“Is that a niffler? Harry we can’t have those in the house!” Ron swept up a giggling James and threw him over his shoulder. 

“No it’s me, James! Put me down Uncle Ron!” 

Hermione’s face hurt from smiling. Ron plopped James down on the bench in front of a newly placed plate curtesy of Molly.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. There’s been- wait you’ve talked with Kingsley right?” He waited for her nod. “Several muggles popping up that weren’t part of the primary obliviate sweep. Feels like every time we think we got the last of ‘em another one pops up.”

“It sounds like a nightmare. Are you working the case or just supporting?”

Ron puffed up his chest slightly. “I’m heading the cleanup effort.” 

“That’s great Ronald!”

“It also means that when- I mean if- you consult we’d be working together! Just like old times eh?”

“I think I’m going to do it actually. I don’t think I can pass it up.”

Both boys yelped and hugged her again. 

“Oh give the poor girl some room you two.” Molly scolded from her spot by the sink. 

“Sorry mum.”

“Sorry Molly.”

James, rather miffed at being ignored, pulled on Hermione’s robe. 

“Aunty Mio, what’s going on?”

She dropped to one knee to match his eye level. 

“You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me. I bet you’ll get real sick of me soon.”  
  
“Nuh uh!”

“Hey James, why don’t you go play with your aviatmobile in the living room?” Harry said.

“But Aunty Mio is in here!”

“James.” Harry said in a stern voice. 

James pouted as he shuffled away.

“You're his hero. I’m actually surprised he didn’t put up a bigger fight.”  


“His hero?”

“Sure! We’ve been telling him all about you since before he could talk.”

“Oh.” 

She hadn’t considered Harry would tell his kids about her. Sure, she thought he may have mentioned her as a passing figure in one of his stories, but never specifically about her. 

“So, when do you think you’ll be moving back? You’re more than welcome to stay with Ginny, the boys, and me at Grimmauld Place.”

“Or with me and Padma.” Ron offered.

“Thank you both. I’m not sure yet. I think as soon as possible, maybe Monday? I might be working mostly on site. Kingsley won’t tell me much until I officially agree.”

“Well our doors are always open for you.”

They passed the rest of the afternoon reminiscing on the more mundane misadventures they experienced at Hogwarts. Molly had disappeared upstairs once she was satisfied with the amount of food Hermione and Harry had eaten. At one point James, who had grown bored of his toy, had dragged Hermione outside to watch him play on his toy broom. The sun was just setting when a haggard looking Ginny apparated next to them. 

“Bloody idiots. I don’t even know how they let the first group through. I’m surprised one particular girl could differentiate one end of her broomstick from the other!”

Hermione stood silently and waited for Ginny to notice her. 

“HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER!” Ginny barreled into her, leaning her upper body forward to accommodate her swollen belly. Ginny’s muscular arms held her close. She was Hermione’s first female friend, and if Hermione was being honest, sometimes her best friend full stop. When Ron and Harry were brooding, Ginny was a constant ray of uplighting energy, partially undercut by her bone dry humor. She had always been willing to listen to whatever weekly cause Hermione had championed when the boys eyes had long ago gone glassy with disinterest. Despite this, Hermione was shocked when she felt the a few fat tears run down her cheek, when they had been successfully suppressed thus far. 

“We are having a _long_ conversation. But first, I need to pee. Like really really need to be pee.” 

And with that, Ginny waddled into the house without a glance backwards.

“She hasn’t changed huh?” Harry said, a fond look on his face.

“No she really hasn’t.”

* * *

Hermione and Ginny sat alone in front of the fireplace in the living room. Ginny, obviously keen to grill Hermione on all things “girl talk”, had banished the boys upstairs to deal with her children.

“So. Nine years. You must have done something in that time. And by done something I mean done someone. My life is locked in and I need to live vicariously. Now spill.”

Hermione chuckled. “I don’t know if there’s much to tell, to be honest.”  


Ginny gave her a disbelieving look, clearly not convinced. 

“Really. No one. Not one person tickled your fancy?”  


“Well there was someone. A few someones."

Ginny squealed in excitement. “Tell me everything. Right now. Or so help me, I will put you in timeout.”

  
  
“Ginny, I’m 28 and older than you.”

Ginny gave Hermione a stern glare that was so reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley, Hermione quickly backtracked. 

“Ok, ok. First was Skyler-”

“Hot name. Bet he was fit.” Ginny said eagerly.

Hermione steeled herself. 

“She was.”

For as long as Hermione could remember Ginny had something to say. It didn’t matter what the situation was, she simply always had a snappy retort ready and waiting. But it seemed that finally, she was at a loss for words. 

“She?” Ginny said weakly.

“She.”

A moment of silence. 

“Well. You _have_ been having fun away! Tell me, is it any better than guys? I’d imagine it is. I mean, Harry wasn’t ever bad, not really, but let’s just say he has improved magnificently!”

“Ginny, I really, really don’t want to hear about your and Harry’s sex life.”

“But I really, really want to hear about yours. Don’t avoid the subject.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what the difference is.”

“You mean you never… I guess I just assumed you and Ron had, you know.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I was too focused on my parents’ condition. It didn’t exactly set the mood.”

“So do you like, like cleaning the cobwebs with the womb broom? Peeling the banana? A little pogo in the shrub? Shooting the meat rocket into the sausage wallet?”

“Stop, please Merlin stop.”

“Well?”

“No Ginny I don’t like men.”

“Huh. So Ron?”

“Will always be like a brother to me.”

It had taken Hermione several years after their ill-fated end to come to the realization that neither of them had done anything wrong at all. She had assumed that their lack of chemistry was due to her fragile mental state. Eventually she ascertained that while, yes, recently having undergone severe torture only to find that neither of your parents could ever be your parents again, did not have a positive effect on your sex drive, they were not the sole reasons for her failed relationship. The awkwardness that she had experienced when trying to do anything physical with him was due to the fact that Ron was simply a he. 

Victor Krum, meanwhile, had felt more like an obligation than anything else. All of Hermione’s female peers were swooning over the male Hogwarts population, and an international quidditch star who, for whatever reason, had chosen _her_ to fancy, had seemed at the time an obvious choice. It certainly had silenced the other girls gossiping about the odd Hermione Granger. But, like with Ron, Hermione had felt an intense discomfort when Krum had clumsily groped her in one of the hidden passageways. At the time she had told herself it was due to her inexperience and her lack of any real emotional connection with Krum.

The first time she had kissed a girl had been at a gay club in Montréal. She had unwillingly been dragged along by some friends. To compensate her uneasiness, Hermione made the unfortunate, or fortunate depending on your viewpoint, decision to drink until she no longer felt self conscious. For the self-aware Hermione Granger, this turned out to be several drinks. Which naturally turned into several more. Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, a pretty woman with golden hair was pressed against her in the middle of the dance floor. When they kissed, Hermione felt no lingering sense of awkwardness. While the next morning Hermione may not have remembered the girl’s name or face, she did remember the feeling. 

She was surprised when she found she didn’t question herself. It just felt right. All the unpleasant emotions she had associated with being intimate did not appear when she was with a woman.

“Right. So Sklyer?” Ginny’s voice knocked Hermione out of her introspection.

Pleased that Ginny seemed to take the news in stride, she continued to relay all of her previous relationship woes. It was a rather short list, but a list none the less. 

Before Hermione knew it, the sky become completely dark. She jumped up.

“Blimey, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. I have to go!”

Hastily, she ran about the Burrow hugging Harry, Ginny, Ron, Molly, James, and a tiny Albus, asleep in his father’s arms. She made Molly promise to apologize to Mr. Weasley (Hermione was not about to disregard her parents’ teachings and address him as Arthur before being explicitly given the right to do so) for leaving before he returned. 

Hermione’s hair had long since escaped the bun she placed it in that morning by the time she had finished her hurried goodbyes. She all but ran to the field and apparated back to the ministry. 

A quick tempus told her she had precisely six minutes to catch the portkey back to Portland. She dropped the all but, and blatantly ran to the elevator. Fortunately, there were few people still working and she had no difficulties returning to the Department of Magical Transportation. With one minute to go, she barged into a mercifully empty but one ministry worker room, ignored said worker’s disapproving look, and grabbed onto the portkey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we have 1 more chapter before we really get into the whole thiiiiing. 
> 
> Euphemisms are fun. Ginny is fun. Completely underrated character that got shafted in the movies. 
> 
> I decided to make Hermione a lesbian over bisexual for a few reasons:  
> 1\. Ron and Hermione's relationship always seemed incredibly forced.  
> 2\. Hermione never really talks about Krum in any sort of romantic way, which makes me think they had more of a friendly relationship.  
> 3\. In the cursed child alternate universe, Hermione is presumably single and a professor at Hogwarts? A.K.A has a secret GF. Because I choose to believe.  
> 4\. ??  
> 5\. profit.
> 
> Also, Ron marries Padma b/c he marries her in the alternate reality.
> 
> This is the first thing I've written in over 6 years, and my first ever story longer than 2k words so please drop a comment with any constructive criticism! Or just any comment! I like comments. They make me happy.
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe!


	6. The little waves, with their soft, white hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized is french, regular is english.
> 
> My french is bad. Really bad. Don't judge me. Or do, I'm a note not a cop.

She noticed it was still light out as she stepped into the lobby of the Portland Congressional branch. It was disorienting being as exhausted as she was and not having the sky reflect a more appropriate time for her to be in such a way. She briefly wondered if she should be apparating in her state, but promptly decided to ignore this thought in favor of collapsing in her bed as soon as possible. 

When Hermione arrived back at her house she checked her phone that had been left on the kitchen counter. Magic had a rather unfortunate effect on electronics, and although Hermione had managed to create a spell that would damped the effects of minor magic, it was no match for the overwhelming ambient magic surrounding the ministry, and thus the cell phone had laid abandoned on the kitchen counter for the entirety of Hermione’s trip. 

She had several good luck messages from Anne and Jack that she swiftly responded to, letting them know it had gone well, and that she would call them in the morning. The stove clock read 3 pm. She made her way to the fireplace and dropped to her knees, a pinch of floo powder in hand. 

“The Treehouse.”

A well lit room appeared in front of her. It seemed as though nearly the entire room was made of varying kinds of wood. A large circular window was directly across from the fireplace Hermione’s head was now floating in, providing ample sunlight and a view of a meadow. There were approximately a dozen children playing a hectic looking competition in the field. She could hear their shouts and laughter from the fireplace, while the inside was otherwise quiet. 

“‘Allo? Avery?”

A man roughly the same age as Hermione appeared from somewhere to her left. He had long, wavy chestnut hair that was thrown up into a bun at the top of his head, and a beard that was just teetering the edge of being unmanageable. He had a conventional attractiveness with high cheekbones and a strong jawline that was evident even beneath the beard. His full lips turned upwards when he recognized who was calling. 

‘ _Emione! Salut! Ça va_?” 

“ _Bien, bien_.” 

“ _We haven’t seen you for a while, what brings you calling_?”

“ _I know, I’m sorry. Is it ok if I come tomorrow? I need to use the floo. And see the kids, of course._ ”

He raised a bushy eyebrow up.

“ _Is your floo broken_?” He gave her a pointed look.  


Hermione could feel a slight blush spread across her face.

“ _No, but the minister wanted to talk and I didn’t want to give him the cottage’s address_.”  


“ _The Minister? As in, in England_?”

“ _Yes_.”

“ _Huh_.”

“ _8:30 ok? The calls at 9._ ”

“ _As long as you come hungry, of course_.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how she always ended up with friends who felt such an intense desire to feed her, but she was grateful. 

At the sound of something crashing in the next room, Avery and Hermione hastily said their goodbyes, the former running off in the direction of the noise, an exasperated expression already painted on his face.

Hermione withdrew her head from the fireplace and sighed softly. She allowed herself to fully feel the emotional exhaustion that had been weighing progressively heavier as the day dragged on, and was now an overwhelming pressure that she found impossible to fight. She hauled herself to her bedroom and collapsed into bed without a second thought. 

* * *

The next morning Hermione woke before the sun. She had long since become accustomed to early morning awakenings that had started as an inimical side effect of her previously regular nightmares, and had evolved into a cherished ritual that was only broken by the overindulgence of alcohol the night prior. She dressed in a pair of baggy jeans, long since ripped and discolored from overwear, and an oversized University of Maine sweatshirt that she had nicked from Jack a few summers ago. A black beanie was placed firmly on her head as she simultaneously slipped into her muddied black boots. 

Hermione grabbed her notebook and a pen from the coffee table and left the cottage. It was just starting to brighten, the stars, a brilliant splattering of white that seemed to cover the entirety of the sky, were still visible, but fast fading. She walked at a comfortable pace back to her spot on the rocks that she had sat just a couple days before to contemplate the implications of the unrequested letter. 

She descended the rocks until she reached a nook hidden from the surrounding land. The only way one would be able to spot her was if one was in the sea. She settled in and cast a cushioning charm on the cold rock. 

It had been her tradition since the first morning she had spent in the cottage to come to this nook and watch the sunrise. One which she took seriously, and was loathe to miss. The birds were chirping, not softly, a sure indication of a summer fast approaching, unlike the buds on the trees that remained stubbornly closed. 

She opened her notebook and began to draw as the sun peeked over the horizon. The sky was painted with soft oranges and yellows whose pigment slowly intensified as the sun rose. Drawing was not something Hermione had ever imagined herself doing. She was not being modest when she would say she was not good. Her drawings were clumsy and unclear. It was glaringly obvious that she was untrained and untalented. But the drawings were not for anyone else but herself, and she did not mind the bumpy lines and disproportions. It was calming. A balm for the omnipotent burn seared into her brain. Hermione rarely thought at all when drawing, rarer still, did she think about The War. 

She never knew exactly how long she stayed out on the rock. It varied. Sometimes she spent hours huddled against the rock face, not moving until the sun was at its zenith. Other times she was barely there long enough for the sun to properly light the world. Today, she waited until she could feel the warmth of the sun against her face before getting up and returning to the cottage.

It was 7:30. She milled around her home, straightening things that were out of place while she allowed herself to grow excited at her trip to The Treehouse. While it was true she had lived in Maine for the better part of a decade, she hadn’t necessarily spent all her time there. A large portion, for certain stretches a majority, was spent in Québec. She thought back to her first visit. 

* * *

It had been almost exactly a year since The Battle of Hogwarts, and Hermione was exhausted. She had tried to live exclusively in the muggle world, a futile attempt to avoid the consequences of being a wizarding war hero. She had been expecting to find comfort in the simplicity of muggle life, instead finding herself out of place and out of sorts. It was the same feeling she experienced before entering Hogwarts, and every break spent at home with her parents. She didn’t belong in the muggle world. As much as she tried, she couldn’t turn off a part of herself that was so integral to who she was. It was precisely this feeling that pushed her, after 8 months, to re-enter the wizarding world… cautiously.

Hermione decided to explore the wizarding community in Québec first. It was near enough to her new home that she could avoid a portkey, and far enough away to give herself a proper separation when she returned to the cottage. 

She apparated to a side alley she had looked up on map quest. Instantly, the sound of cheerful chatter assaulted her ears. She walked out of the alley into the stone streets of Old Québec. There were people all around her, dining underneath colorful umbrellas on metal chairs, others wandering around mindlessly. Some spoke French, others english. She appreciated the scene for a minute. The Château Frontenac loomed above them all, looking as elegant as it did powerful.

Hermione walked across the street to a derelict café. She wondered if all wizarding communities were hidden behind such unattractive visages. The door squeaked as she opened it. Unlike The Leaky Cauldron, the inside of this way station, L’oeil de Triton (The Newt’s Eye), was nothing like its exterior suggested. It was bright, welcoming, and clean. There were witches and wizards milling about. A well stocked, oval shaped bar commanded the center of the room. The area nearest the entrance Hermione had just walked through was crowded, although not overly so, with dining tables of varying sizes. Across the room, that she now headed towards, was filled sparingly with standing tables, clearly meant for drinkers to congregate around. She walked out onto the patio lining the back wall. There were fewer people here, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine it being filled with smokers and people desperate for fresh air. Hermione couldn’t help but notice almost all the conversations around her were in a warped French that was almost unrecognizable to her. It didn’t seem as though they were talking about her, and so she was emboldened enough to continue through the narrow door hidden underneath an overgrowth of ivy. 

The scene that awaited her was so similar to Diagon Alley, she felt a pang in her chest. Stores lined the cobbled street, advertising everything from wands to pewter cauldrons, to the newest broomstick. The people, however, were undoubtedly different from the English, and this allowed the breath that had been stuck in her chest, to release. They casually strode from store to store seemingly without a worry in the world more serious than what they were to have for lunch. There were no signs of war. No indication that their lives had been in grave danger not one year ago. With a jolt, Hermione had realized that they hadn’t been. 

It had seemed that the world’s fate had rested in Harry, Ron, and her hands’. It was humbling to realize she had been completely wrong. These peoples lives were unaffected. She was sure they had heard about a dangerous wizard rising to power, but that was thousands of miles away and didn’t directly impact their lives. There was no reason for them to hunker down in safe-houses or go on the run. Here, life had continued.

She hadn’t even made it 30 yards before something solid barreled into her, forcing her to the ground, and knocking the wind out of her. 

“Savannah!” A strong female voice rang out from a few feet away. 

The thing that had ran into her, Hermione realized now was a girl no older than 7, winced at the voice. 

“ _I’m sorry_!” She spoke in hurried French, her brown eyes blown wide in mortification. She was a small, skinny girl, and Hermione found herself begrudgingly impressed with the amount of force with which she had collided with her. The girl’s black hair was messy. It reminded Hermione of Harry’s by the way it seemed to have a mind of its own. She had smooth chocolate skin that was nearly the same shade as her dark eyes.

Hermione didn’t respond, but not for lack of trying. Her breath still hadn’t returned.

“ _Savannah you cannot rush off like that. I’m so sorry for her Miss_.” The feminine voice, a woman in her early 20s, turned to Hermione and offered her hand.

“ _It’s fine. It was an accident_.” Hermione managed to breathe out in clumsy French.

“Ah, is English better?” The woman spoke with an American accent.

Hermione’s brain had finally managed to catch up with her eyes. She realized the woman in front of her was beautiful. She was tall and muscular, an athletic build that implied regular exercise and careful diet. Her hair was so dirty blonde it was nearly brown. It was thick, wavy, and laid calmly on her head in a manner that Hermione was immediately envious of. Her face, angular, all sharp edges, served to give her an intimidating air. Simply put, Hermione found the woman stunning.  


She finally recovered enough to speak. The woman looked at her with an amused expression.

“Y-yes. It’s really no problem.” 

“Of course it is. Savannah, you know better than that.”

The girl looked to be on the verge tears.

“ _I know_ -“

“English.” The girl scrunched up her face in displeasure.

“I know. I saw Erik running to Satchel’s and I wanted to beat him. I was not watching careful where I was going.”

“Carefully. And that’s clear.”

The woman turned back to Hermione. 

“I’m Skyler, by the way. This one is Savannah. We were just going to get ice cream, can I buy you one as an apology?”

“It’s quite alright, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Hermione was very proud of how clear her voice came out.  


“Well I’m not considering my apology accepted until you agree. And I’m afraid I’m rather insistent on my apologies.”

“Please ma’am join us.” Savannah turned her eyes to Hermione, who quickly found her resolve fading. 

“It’s Hermione.” She sighed. “Lead the way.”

Skyler and Savannah, despite clearly having no relation, looked nearly identical as they beamed at Hermione.

They walked across the street to Satchel’s Dairy Freeze. An excited looking boy of about 10 was waiting for them in front of the door, looking impressively smug.

“ _Nice one Savannah_.”

“ _Shut up Erik.”_

Hermione fought off a smile. Skyler had no such reservations and snorted. A middle aged man lumbered towards them. Like Skyler, he was tall and muscular, but, unlike her, his features were soft and welcoming. About three more children followed in his wake. They were of varying ages, one, a girl that looked no older than 4 was gripping the man’s hand, another, this time a boy, looked about 12, the last was quickly approaching manhood, his beard growing in patchy. 

“ _Where did you two wander off to? And who’s your new friend?”_ He spoke in a deep voice that seemed to be the antithesis of his welcoming appearance. 

“ _Just popped off to look at some quodpot gloves. Savannah got a little overexcited when we were heading over here and ran into this poor girl.”_ She switched to English. “Hermione, this is Luis, Luis this is the poor girl.”

Hermione furrowed her eyes at the introduction, but offered her hand to shake. Luis shook it without preamble, his large hands easily covering hers.

“My apologies for Savannah. She is very, how do you say, excitable.” He spoke with a thick French accent that Hermione could barely make sense of. 

“It’s really no problem. She’s very sweet.” 

Savannah, whose shoulders had been slouched, puffed up her chest at the compliment and rewarded Hermione with another bright smile. 

"Hermione, this here is Amanda," she pointed to the little girl clutching Luis' hand, "Zach," the 12 year old, "and Avery" the eldest. They all waved shyly as at Hermione as they were introduced.

"Hi everyone." She gave her best effort of a warm smile, but was convinced it fell short.

Hermione grew quiet as she watched the odd group interact. She couldn’t figure out the nature of their relationship, but it was clear that they were very close. None of them looked alike, but they behaved as though they were family. She briefly wondered if Skyler and Luis were together. They gave no indication they were, and the thought was pushed aside. Hermione was stirred out of her thoughts by Skyler’s voice.

“Hermione? What do you want?”

“Oh, um, cookie dough?”

“That’s my favorite too!” Savannah said before Skyler could respond.

The rest of the group ordered, and made their way back out of the small shop each carrying a large cone.

“So what do you do Hermione?”

“I just took my N.E.W.T.s, but I suspect I’ll do some research. What about you?” She turned the conversation away from herself, and was thankful to the others for allowing her to do so.

“You’re looking at. I deal with these nightmares all day.”

“Please. You love us.” The 12 year old sassed.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not nightmares.”

“We run a community center of sorts.” Avery chimed over the bickering. 

Hermione swallowed her questions at the solemn looks the children now sported. 

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but before she could question it, she had been swept up by the group’s insistence and apparated to a grass field. 

They were quickly surrounded by even more children, again of varying ages. They spoke in rapid French too fast for Hermione to understand. 

Skyler softly grabbed her arm. Hermione was proud that she managed only a small flinch. 

“Come on.” She spoke directly into Hermione’s ear, bending down slightly to do so. 

She allowed herself to get pulled towards the- well, building was a strong word. Standing before them was the largest tree Hermione had ever seen. Even larger than the Redwoods she had read about. It was wider than her childhood home, and many times over taller. She craned her head upwards and could just barely see the top. The exterior of the tree was warped to allow for glass windows and doors. There were several balconies that seemingly grew out of the tree itself. 

Skyler looked at Hermione as she admired the Tree, her jaw hanging loose. 

“It’s amazing isn’t it?”

Hermione managed to nod in response.

“It’s all molded from the tree itself. Ancient magic.”

“It’s fantastic. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never even read of anything like it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Skyler smiled, as though she was laughing at a joke only she knew.

She led Hermione into the house. It opened to a mudroom. There were cupboards lining the-trunk? Walls?- that were made of more wood. Hermione suspected that most things in the house were made entirely of wood. She allowed Skyler to direct them into an adjourning room. It was warm, bright, and would have reminded Hermione of the Burrow’s living room if not for the tall ceilings and large windows. There was no one inside. 

They sat on well worn couches that instantly sunk down when they dropped into them. 

“Welcome to the Treehouse.”

“What is this exactly?”

“It’s a home, first and foremost. More specifically, it's a home for those with nowhere to go.”

“An orphanage?”

“I suppose. We don’t only deal with orphans though. There are plenty of children here whose parents have cast them out for one reason or another. And those are only the permanent residents.”

“What do you mean permanent?”

“It’s a camp of sorts. At least, in the summer it is. Campers will arrive in a couple of weeks. There are plenty of parents who either don’t want, or can’t, have their kids stay the entire summer. We also offer tutoring as a way to help no-maj-borns. It’s crazy to think some of them don’t do a lick of magic all summer, don’t you think?”

Hermione’s scar burned painfully on her forearm.

“Yes, I remember feeling miffed that pure and half bloods were allowed to do magic without penalty during breaks.”

“You’re no-maj-born?” Skyler looked surprised.

“Yes.”

Skyler hummed. “We have a few here. Residents that is.”

“Why here?”

“Their parents died. It’s hard enough to go to an orphanage for only three months of the year, never mind if you’re magical. Their mental state doesn’t tend to be in the best of conditions, to put it mildly. Imagine how much accidental magic would be done if you tried to put them in a no-maj orphanage.”

“I never thought about it. Do magic raised children come here too if they’re orphaned?”

“It depends. We run the largest orphanage in North America, but there are a few out west, and one down south in America. We’re different from the rest in that we also take in the unwanted.”

Skyler continued at Hermione’s questioning look.

“What’s your opinion on half-breeds?”

“I think it’s an insulting phrase for one. They’ve been completely cast aside by society. It’s a disgrace really, how the government handles it. It’s as though we live in the dark ages.” 

Skyler gave a small smile.

“Some of the children here are. Or have been bit by a werewolf.”

“Oh. That’s…” She searched for the word. 

“Unfortunate? Tragic? Surprising?” Skyler supplied.

“Yes. To all three.”

“They don’t have anywhere else to go. Their parents didn’t want them. We try and give them more than just a place to sleep in-between terms. A home.”

“It’s a brilliant idea. I can’t imagine how rewarding it is.”

“I can’t imagine myself doing anything else, if we’re being honest.”

Savannah, who, since barreling into Hermione had decided that she was her new favorite person, ran into the room.

“Hermione, can you please stay for dinner? Please?”

Hermione found herself unable to refuse.

* * *

She had spent several years spending weekdays at the Treehouse and weekends at the cottage. Slowly, she had begun to shape a life for herself. Looking back, Hermione could say without a doubt that the Treehouse had saved her from a disastrous implosion.

To be provided an opportunity to help others in a way that was completely independent of any violence had been exactly what Hermione had needed.

She glanced to the analog clock on the wall. 8:27. 

Hermione picked up some floo powder, and was on her way.

“ _Hermione_!”

“‘ _Mione_!”

“ _Can you help with my homework_?”

Voices assaulted her the second she stepped out of the fireplace. A half a dozen children were clamoring fro her attention. She didn’t even try to stop the grin that spread across her face.

“ _Slow down everyone! Let her breath!_ ” Avery’s voice bellowed from behind the hoard of kids.

“ _Hi guys!”_

Savannah, now 15 years old, pushed her way to the front of the group to envelop Hermione in a hug. 

“I missed you!” 

“I missed you too. Now let’s go to the kitchen, I was promised breakfast.”

The group, still vying for Hermione’s attention, chatted happily as they made their way to the industrial size kitchen. She sat on a familiar stool and leaned her elbows on the similarly familiar bar.

The older ones relayed their latest school terms, while the younger kids filled Hermione in on their recent tutoring sessions.

Before she knew it, it was nearly 9. Avery was the first to notice, and shooed the kids out into the lawn to play.

“ _Good luck Mi_. _We’ll be here for you after._ ” He said into her neck as he hugged her. 

With that, he followed the kids into the yard, and Hermione was left alone.

She didn’t have to wait in front of the fireplace long before Kingsley’s face appeared. 

“I must admit, I wasn’t expecting this to be your calling place. I suppose it does make sense.” He said in lieu of a greeting. 

Hermione just smiled. 

“Alright, down to business then. What do you think?”  
  
“I think I’ve been sold since you first sent your letter.”

Kingsley beamed at her, smile clearly evident despite the flames distorting his face.

“That’s great! I know it’s all last minute, but do you think you could be here by Monday? The team can still do work until then. They’re fast approaching needing further guidance.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure that’s fine. Am I going to be working mostly in the field, or should I sort out accommodation?”  


“We’ll get you set up in Edinburgh. I’ll send someone this afternoon to handle it. All you have to do is show up.”

She nodded. “And the rest of the information?”

“I’ll have it waiting for you the second you get to England. Our consultant is putting together a comprehensive report as we speak. She’s still sifting through the site runes.”

“Who’s the consultant?”

Hermione would never have thought Kingsley was capable of it, but there was no doubt the smile he gave her was, in a word, devious. 

“Fleur Delacour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really meant to describe her first time at the treehouse, but one thing led to another and now here we are. I thought it necessary to talk about it because they'll be certain references back to it later. I just hadn't meant for it to be this long. Oops.
> 
> Skyler. You sly dog.
> 
> This isn't my favorite chapter, but it happened. Whateva
> 
> Next chapter- Fleur! What do you guys think she's been up to since the war?


	7. Efface the footprints in the sands

Whoever Hermione had expected Kingsley to name, it certainly wasn’t Fleur Delacour. As far as Hermione was aware Fleur was a Gringotts curse breaker, who, while certainly might be familiar with various warding runes, was far more adapt at disabling enchantments and not at understanding the intricacies and subtle nuances of complex rune magic. Perhaps the ministry was concerned about live curses that hadn’t yet been unearthed? But that didn’t make sense either. Gringotts would never willingly lend one of their curse breakers to the Ministry. 

She mused on this as she tackled packing. Having no idea how long she would be staying proved to complicate the task. She couldn’t bring herself to completely pack up her cottage- it would feel too final, too permanent.

She decided to travel back to England on Saturday in order to give herself some time to settle in to her new accommodation and, hopefully, make some progress with the case file. If that also meant she would be avoiding weekday crowds in the Ministry, well, who could blame her?

It had taken just 10 minutes to pack her clothes, precisely eight of which were spent deliberating between packing her formal garb (she did), but her books were another matter entirely. She nearly postponed her departure to give another few hours to contemplate the merits of bringing the “Encyclopedia of Toadstools” (she didn’t). 

There were times throughout Hermione’s life that she would find herself immensely grateful for being a witch. The ability to carry 106 books in her in a small bag was one such moment. 

She spent the next several days surrounded by her muggle friends when she wasn’t packing. Sarah flat out refused to allow Hermione to babysit on Friday night, despite Hermione’s somewhat halfhearted protesting, and instead insisted she pass the night in much the same manner as she had a few nights prior. She told them she had been hired, managing to dodge questions about what she was doing by throwing out words like “microbial” and “abyssopelagic zone” that led to her friends’ eyes quickly becoming glazed over. They nodded in earnest and changed the subject. Hermione could almost pretend she wasn’t lying at all and simply bending the truth. Almost. 

On Saturday, she erected several complicated, intricate wards and locked the front door the muggle way for good measure. Comforted by the protection her personalized wards promised, she gave the cottage one last cursory look through. The small home was nearly unrecognizable from when she first purchased it using the funds her parents had once set aside for University, back before they could have ever imagined the hidden world of magic. When she first moved there was only a small pine bookcase left over from the previous owner who did not deem it worthwhile enough to move himself, and instead graciously elected to leave the bookcase that should have found a new home at the dump. That first night in the cottage Hermione, completely plastered from a bargain sized fire whiskey, had told the bookcase that under no circumstances would she abandon it. The next morning she had painted it white and proudly displayed it in her living room. 

The rest of the house had slowly been filled with various trinkets gifted to her by various thankful employers. A snow globe collection, charmed to never collect dust, was exhibited on white hanging shelves that wrapped around the living room. Both muggle and magic books were strewn around the room. Some were immaculately stored in one of the several bookcases, while others were stacked in piles of various states of precariousness on the floor. 

It was a slightly mad sight. To Hermione, it was home, and she would miss it.

Unwilling to linger lest she lose her nerve, she apparated away. 

The Portland office was the same as it was before, but with fewer people. Her portkey was not a normally scheduled journey, instead being requested by the Minister of Magic himself, and thus she did not have to endure any small talk with fellow passengers. Charlie, the travel official, was blessedly absent, a well groomed man in his stead. The man didn’t attempt to interact with Hermione beyond giving her a forced looking smile and introducing himself as a support staffer. Not 5 minutes later, Hermione was once again clutching a portkey. 

Like in Portland, the Ministry of Magic was nearly empty, allowing Hermione to reach Kingsley’s office without interruption. The strict secretary Hermione had met previously was no where to be seen. His office door was propped open. She popped her head in timidly. 

“Kingsley?”

“Come in!” 

Instead of welcoming Hermione with a hug, Kingsley dropped a heavy, thick binder in her arms, causing them to drop slightly from the effort of holding it up. 

“Everything we have on the site, the research the Unspeakable’s have been doing, all staff involved, and all theories, viable or not.”

“It all fits in here?”

“It’s charmed. Featherweight and expansion. I believe the actual number of papers in there is around 180,000.”

“Lovely.”

“A bit of light reading for you hm?”

“Where should I be apparating to?” Hermione chose to ignore Kingsley’s jab.

“We set up a portkey for you.” He held up an empty tin can. “An official is waiting for you in Cowgate, right near your new flat. We just need to perform the vow and you’ll be on your way.”

Hermione nodded and dumped the binder into a nearby chair. The pair clasped left hands. Kingsley raised his wand.

“Do you, Hermione Granger, vow to not speak nor suggest nor write about any classified research conducted by the Unspeakables to any individual, corporation, or group not directly involved in the investigation.”

“I do.”

A red glowing tendril of magic wrapped around both their wrists.

“And do you vow to not speak nor suggest nor write about any findings you or the investigative team may discover to any individual, corporation, or group not directly involved in the investigation until I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, give you express permission to do so?”

“I do.”

“So mote may it be.”

“So mote may it be.”

The tendril of magic tightened uncomfortably around their wrists before fading to white and vanishing.

“Excellent. The portkey leaves in exactly one minute. Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”

Hermione was about to shake her head when a thought occurred to her.

“Why is Fleur Delacour on the case?”

Kingsley motioned for Hermione to grab the tin, when she did, he spoke.

“I suspect you’ll find out rather quickly. She’s one of the most clever witches, or wizards for that matter, that I’ve ever met. You’ll have your hands full with that one, she has… présence” 

The tin started to glow just as Hermione opened her mouth. She disappeared without so much as a pop. 

Kingsley sat back down behind his desk, a smug look on his face.

* * *

Hermione was quite pleased with herself when she landed on two feet. It took her eyes a moment to adjust from the well lit office to the shadowed alley. A man stepped towards her. He spoke in a thick Scottish brogue. 

“Ms. Granger, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Auror Jerald Jones”

“Nice to meet you, Hermione’s fine.”

He smiled broadly. 

“Alright then, Hermione, your flat is just this way.” Jerald said motioning behind him. 

“Where are we exactly?”

“Right now in we’re in a close. The flat’s in Grassmarket, about a five minute walk.”

They exited the alley and walked along a tight road, passing several packed bars as they went. 

“Big rugby game.” The Auror said conversationally. 

Hermione merely hummed.

He asked Hermione questions about her time in the war as they walked. Hermione evaded the questions as best she could, but by the time they stopped in front of a slightly downtrodden looking building she was more than slightly annoyed. The Auror opened the door using a muggle key and led Hermione up three flights of stairs to number 54. 

“This is it. Nothing special, but should get the job done.” 

The flat was a simple one bedroom with a small kitchen and a generous sized living room. It was lightly furnished: just one modest looking couch, a large armchair, and a coffee table. The bedroom had a queen sized bed, a spindly side table, and a bureau. 

Hermione, who had resorted to ignoring the Auror’s attempts at conversation, turned to the man and curtly thanked him in a way that left no room for doubt that it was a dismissal. 

The Auror apparated with another round of thanks, leaving a set of muggle keys on the coffee table. 

Hermione let out a sigh as he disappeared. 

* * *

The sun had just set when Hermione finished unpacking. She called for takeaway from an Indian restaurant whose menu was pinned to the cork board in the hall, and collapsed into the couch with the case file.

Someone had thoughtfully put a summary at the beginning that covered all pertinent points, and outlined the contents of the less essential information. The summary was nearly 30 pages. The intercom rang when she was on page 20. 

She got up to pay and settled back in. She could see why the Unspeakables were out of their depth. According to whomever wrote the summary, the runes found at the site were not at all similar to the ones at other ruins of the same period around the country. It was not unusual for ancient ruins throughout the UK to have different runes and magical signatures as the country had a storied history of invaders, but it _was_ unusual to have no overlap at all. In fact, if Hermione was looking at the report without any knowledge of the location of the site, she would never have thought it to be in Europe, never mind in Scotland. 

She finished the summary, convinced she would have to see the site in person before being able to make any semblance of significant progress. With Anne’s nagging voice in the back of her head telling her she needed more sleep, she resolved to look into the report in more depth tomorrow. 

Sunday was spent getting accustomed to her new city, adjusting to the time difference, and trying to make a dent in the report. Her flat was quickly dissolved to a state of disarray. Of course, if you were to ask her to describe it, Hermione would say it was organized chaos.

She went to bed that night excited and slightly nervous for the morning. She wasn’t used to running an investigation. Hermione had always made a point to work alone, as she found that others only served to slow her down. She was slightly comforted by the knowledge that she’d be working with Unspeakables, people who were undoubtable intelligent. 

* * *

Someone was knocking at her door. Hermione groaned, still not yet used to the time change. A quick spell told her it wasn’t yet 7:00 am. The knocking, which had paused momentarily, resumed, causing Hermione to fall out of bed and hastily jump into the first pair of pants she could find. 

“One moment!” 

She rubbed at her eyes in an attempt to clear the sleep from the as she walked through the living space. She hit the corner of the coffee table in her haste, causing a pile of books that had been balanced on top of it to topple, a thick tome hitting her toes. She swore as she hobbled to the door and wrest it open.

“Sorry abou- Fleur?“

The woman facing her didn’t seem to have aged a day in the last decade. Fleur wore comfortable black jeans that hung from her hips and stopped just above black Blundstones and a dark grey oversized raincoat that fell nearly to her mid thigh. Her shimmering silvery-blonde hair was contained by a blue beanie that contrasted the rest of her dark outfit. Hermione thought bitterly that no one deserved to look that good this early in the morning in such casual clothes. 

Fleur’s eyebrows were nearly at her hairline as she took in Hermione’s disheveled appearance. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

“‘ermione. I ‘ope I didn’t wake you.”

_Had her voice always been this velvety?_ Hermione thought. _Velvety? What does that even mean?_

“No of course not, I was just… reading.”

Fleur gave her an amused look, staring at the right corner of Hermione’s mouth. 

“You have a little something…” She motioned to her own mouth. 

Hermione rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, embarrassed to feel the remnants of dried drool. She could feel the blush surfacing. 

“Right. Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what exactly are you doing here?”

“I thought it might be better if I saw you before we were with the others, in case seeing me brought up any unwanted,” she paused, “memories.”

Hermione blinked. She was surprised the woman had thought of checking in with her in such a way. Logically, she knew Fleur was more than capable of caring as it had been her that single-handedly nursed her back to health in Shell Cottage, but Hermione had always thought it was done more from an obligation to Harry and the cause than any genuine concern for Hermione herself. She had, after all, treated Fleur with thinly veiled contempt every time they had interacted before Shell Cottage. 

“Oh uh, I’m alright. I mean thank you.” Hermione managed to stammer out as she motioned inside. “Do you want to come in?” She remembered her manners, opening the door wider.

Fleur smiled and nodded.

“So. You’ve been elusive the last few years.” Fleur said as she passed. She eyed the apartment, unimpressed.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working nearly constantly, makes it difficult to come back. What have you been up to?” Hermione had asked mostly to divert attention from herself, but found she was genuinely curious about Fleur’s life. She noticed that Fleur’s accent was barely noticeable anymore. She missed it.

“Work mostly.”

“What exactly do you do? Last I heard you were at Gringotts?”

“Oui. I started as a curse breaker, I think you know this, no?” She continued at Hermione’s nod. “I was with them for about five years. I found the goblins… unpleasant. I left to do consulting for various ministries for a number of years. Minerva offered me the Ancient Runes professor position when she heard I was looking for work. I just finished my third year.”

“What’s teaching like? I wanted to be a professor my first year at Hogwarts. I thought they were the most amazing people.”

“Thought?” Fleur said, a teasing glint in her eye. 

“Think.” A small smile appeared on Hermione’s face.

“It’s wonderful. Mostly. I think they purposefully neglect to tell you about the mandatory patrols for junior Professors.”

“I can imagine Professor McGonagall doing that. Do you mind if I change? There’s tea in the kitchen, feel free to help yourself.”

“Not at all. Would you like any?”

“Please. A breakfast tea would be lovely.”

Hermione retreated to her bedroom. She let out a breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding. Had she always been this flustered around Fleur? She didn’t think so. She thought it must be the thrall. Naturally, this led her to question what exactly the thrall was. She knew she was not affected by it in fourth year and only slightly during the summer preceding Harry, Ron, and her Odyssey. So why would the thrall only be affecting her now? Was it dependent on the effected’s cognizance of his or her sexuality? And if that were the case, would people questioning still be effected? And how would the thrall even be able to surmise an individual’s interest? 

Hermione vowed to research more on the Veela when she returned home that night. In the interim, a stealth investigation would have to do. 

Realizing she had not moved for the last minute, she hurriedly put on a chunky sweater, green cargo pants she had gotten as part of a costume several years ago and decided to keep after discovering their practicality (and comfort), and a sturdy pair of boots. 

After halfheartedly brushing her teeth in a way that surely would have resulted in reprimand as a child, Hermione turned her attention to the unruly mess on top of her head. If she took slightly more care in managing her hair,  well . It’s not like anyone would know. 

She walked back out to the living room much more composed than she was when had left. 

“Fleur?”

“In ‘ere! Just finishing.”

She emerged a moment later holding two mugs, a smirk in place. 

“I think this is yours?”

Fleur handed Hermione a black mug that had “#Bottom” in rainbow letters. Hermione reached for it, mortified.  


“It’s not mine! I mean, it is mine. I didn’t buy it. A, um, friend did. As a joke. It was a joke.” Hermione sputtered. 

“It’s ok ‘ermione. I certainly won’t judge.” She winked.

Hermione gaped slightly before snapping her jaw shut. 

“Right. Well, um, let’s sit?” She gestured to the couch.

Fleur gracefully walked by her, passing closer than what was strictly necessary. Hermione noted she smelt faintly of fresh lilacs. Determined to regain some semblance of control, Hermione sat on the opposite end of the couch.

“So, why did the Ministry call in a Hogwart’s professor?”

Hermione swore Fleur’s face was permanently amused, or maybe it was just that way around her.

“Well, I am the leading expert on criminal warding.”

“You are?”

“No need to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hermione said slightly annoyed, “I’m just didn’t know you were involved in things like that. Why didn’t you work for the Ministry? Surely the DMLE would want you then?”

“They did. I didn’t want them. I had exactly one conversation with the 'ead of the department. Arrogance is something I have little patience for.”

“But you do for teenage boys’ hormones?”

“They at least can recognize brilliance when they see it.” Fleur tossed her hair back, but the motion was restricted by her hat, diminishing the effect. “Even if it is misguided”

“So you consult for them?”

“I used to, after I left Gringotts. Nowadays they know only to contact me if they have absolutely no other option. And this case,” Fleur’s tone turned more serious, “it’s not like any I’ve ever seen. I’m out of my depth, that’s why I insisted they contact you.”

“You were the one that requested me?”

“Of course. I’ve been following your work.  Ancient Runes and their Modern Implications was very well written. In fact it was that book that made me realize the site had more to it than what first met the eye.”

“You read it?” Hermione couldn’t help the surprise in her voice.

“I wouldn’t be a very good professor if I didn’t, seeing that it’s one of the required readings for my NEWT students.”

“Oh. Right.” 

They both jumped when a beeping noise rang around them. Hermione waved her hand and the beeping stopped. 

“Sorry about that, it was my reminder alarm to leave for the site. Want to head over together?”

She motioned a hand and both Fleur and her empty mugs floated to the sink. She looked back to Fleur who was, for some reason, staring at her with an incredulous expression. 

“‘ermione, did you just perform wandless and silent magic?”

“Yes?”

Fleur’s face was quickly schooled. “I suppose I should have expected that. What did they call you? The smartest witch of ‘er generation?”

“Something like that. The site isn’t far right?”

“It’s about a 20 minute walk.”

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Things are crazy over here in the US. As absolutely atrocious the displays of violence shown by the police are, it is heartwarming to see so many different people coming together to stand against the injustice black people have been experiencing for centuries. We will overcome this. 
> 
> Stay safe and wear a mask while protesting!!
> 
> ===
> 
> What do you guys think of their interaction so far? Unfortunately had to actually get to Edinburgh first, so it's not too long. BUT there will be more in the coming chapters.
> 
> This is the mug in case anyone was wondering: https://www.pinterest.co.kr/pin/720013059150965773/  
> heh


	8. And the tide rises, the tide falls

Hermione was quite pleased when she was able to compose herself into what she deemed an acceptable level of nervousness. The two walked a few minutes in companionable silence before Fleur spoke.

“Why did you decide to write your book?”

“It was accident really.”

“You accidentally wrote a book?”

“Sort of. It started as my notes from several excavation sites. A friend happened to see them after I forgot to put them away, and suggested I turn them into a book. I guess the idea just stuck. It wasn’t too difficult to do- I tend to take rather extensive notes anyway.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised by that. I’m glad you “accidentally” wrote it. I was using Advanced Ancient Runes, a completely uninspired book by a completely uninspired author, if you ask me.” Fleur scrunched up her nose in displeasure. “I had half a mind to write my own until yours was published.”

“What would you have focused on?”

“The practical applications of Ancient Runes. Literature on the subject seems to either be a ‘istory lesson, or a theoretical guide. At ‘ogwarts they barely covered rudimentary warding, which makes up 80 percent of what most people use Runes for, before I started. We had an entire course just on warding at Beauxbatons.”

As much as Hermione wanted to adamantly defend her school, this was something that had bothered her while she was a student. Instead, she opted for a halfhearted argument.

“Well perhaps Hogwarts wanted us to have a solid foundation before expanding into more complicated subsets.”  
  
“It’s not a foundation, it’s a glorified ‘istory lesson, and a boring one at that.”

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”

“‘Ow can one repeat the founding of the fourth law of translational warding?”

“I would think a professor would be able to work that one out.” Hermione didn’t try to keep the amusement out of her voice this time. 

“Ah, you are pulling my arm.”

Hermione laughed, much to Fleur’s confusion.

“What?” Fleur said.

“Yes, I am pulling your arm.” Hermione responded with a smile.

“Well, I’m trying to direct the curriculum towards practicality. The students seem to be enjoying it more than your ‘istory lessons.”

“I bet they do.”

They approached the base of Arthur Seat. Instead of walking along the cliffs or in the small valley, both of which were crowded with muggle tourists, Fleur led them to a muddy area thickly covered with shrubs. She motioned with one arm for Hermione to walk through them. Hermione made no move to continue on, instead glancing at the brambles before turning to Fleur, a confused expression on her face. 

“Are you going to go, or should we just wait out ‘ere for the rest of the day?”

“And how exactly am I supposed to walk through that?”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t obvious?”

Hermione crossed her arms and attempted to level a glare on Fleur, but only succeeded in amplifying Fleur’s smugness.

“No it’s not obvious.”

“Perhaps you are out of practice then?” 

She turned without waiting for a reply, pulled out her wand with a small flick, and stepped directly onto where the shrubbery should be. Instead of sinking into the brambles, Fleur disappeared.

Hermione, not keen to be left looking a fool, decided to follow after her. She raised her leg and stepped down, only to find that unlike Fleur, her foot landed precisely where it should- directly on top of the thorny branches. Her arms waved wildly as she tried to regain her balance, only just managing to do so, but at the cost of her other foot also becoming lodged in the bush. 

She looked around, relieved to find no one had seen her. Less relieving was the lack of Fleur. 

“Fleur? Where are you?”

When there was no response, Hermione pulled out her wand and cast a spell to reveal invisible or glamoured people. No results. She tried a few more. Each new attempt came up as unsuccessful as the last. 

She took a breath. Fleur likely wordlessly cast something as she took out her wand before walking forward. If that were true, Hermione should be able to detect spell traces. Determined, Hermione raised her wand and began to cast. There was a trail in the air, but it was so faint Hermione wouldn’t have thought it had just been created, had she not known that Fleur must have cast _something_. It was strange. 

She turned her focus to detecting wards. If Fleur wasn’t disguising herself, and if there were no significant spell traces which would indicate a transfiguration or charm, a warding system would be the next logical guess. 

Here she was more successful. After a few moments of casting, rune symbols stacked on top of one another in two pillars appeared floating on either side of Hermione, glowing a muted red. She examined them, quickly recognizing that some of them were Pictish while others were similar to ones she’d found in a few of the American Indigenous magical peoples’ ancient settlement ruins.

Hermione deduced that while these runes were different than perimeter warding runes commonly found in England, their purpose was much the same: keep the unwanted out. She had just begun starting to figure out how to alter the wards to allow her entrance when they suddenly glowed white.

Fleur appeared in front of her abruptly, surprising Hermione and causing her to fall backwards with an undignified yelp.

“‘ermione! Are you ok?” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” 

She was not fine. She was sitting in the mud while perhaps the most attractive woman she knew looked down on her. Hermione felt as though she was back at Hogwarts, awkward school girl and all.

Fleur offered a hand that Hermione gratefully took. Her hand was softer than Hermione was expecting, and she was suddenly self conscious of her own calloused hands, long since hardened from years of helping Jack on the boat. 

“I apologize- I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine, really I was just startled. Why didn’t you tell me it was warded?”

“I thought you might want a warm up before we begin the real work? Limber up the mind?”

“Next time just tell me.” Hermione grumbled.

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Hermione glared at her. Fleur held up her hands in a show of surrender.

“All you have to do is assure the wards you mean no harm to the crypt inside.”

“Assure a ward?”

“Oui.”

“And how am I supposed to assure a ward?”

“Legilimency.”

“On a ward?”

“As I’m sure you’ve realized, the warding system is quite old. You have to project your intentions onto each successive rune, they’ll change to green as you pass.”

“How does it determine if you’re lying or not?”

“To that, I ‘ave no idea. Magic, I suppose.”  
  
“Like the Mirror of Erised.” Hermione murmured to herself. “I wonder if Dumbledore used a similar system.”

“Mirror of Erised?”

Hermione waved her off. “I’ll tell you about it another time. Alright, I’ll give it a go. I’ve never been good at Legilimency though.”

“The runes do most of the work, you just have to open your mind and push the thought forward.”

Hermione gripped her wand tightly. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She tried to focus on projecting an air of innocence in her mind before opening her eyes, her gaze directly on the top rune of the left pillar and confidently casting, “Legilimens”

Immediately, Hermione could feel a pressure in her head. It was odd. Unlike when a person invaded her mind, the ward’s presence was all encompassing. Quickly, it extended beyond her focused thoughts. It shifted through more than sheer memories, focusing just as much on her emotional reactions to the memories as to the events themselves. The shifts were too quick for Hermione to focus on. She had the distinct feeling that the wards were examining her entire life. 

Hermione was too preoccupied with the presence in her head that she failed to notice the runes changing colors one by one. It was only about 10 seconds before all of them were the same white color. She could feel the ward immediately retreat from her mind. 

“That was very quick.” Fleur said. “Are you alright?”

“Yes- yes I think so.” Hermione didn’t _feel_ sure, in fact, she felt rather discombobulated. 

“It’s an odd feeling, is it not? Fortunately you only have to go through it once. Next time you pass it more or less just checks you are who you say you are.”

“Right.”

“You know,” Fleur began talking as she led Hermione through the invisible barrier, “most people take much longer before they’re granted access.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask what the average time was, when suddenly their surroundings shifted from greenery and open air to a dimly lit cave. It was large: Hermione thought several Notre Dames could fit one on top of the other and still have room to spare overhead. There were lights in the distance just barely illuminating several human silhouettes.

Beyond its size, the cave itself was not particularly impressive. There were no engravings or pillars, or indeed any indication that humans had ever been inside. 

“The site is just up there.” Fleur pointed towards the lights. “The gate serves as a porthole of sorts. We’re now directly underneath Arthur Seat. It’s expanded beyond its physical size though.”

“That’s fascinating. I wonder how long ago the original enchantments were cast. Of course, according to Pallick’s Law the larger the transformation the quicker the degradation of the enchantment. I would have thought one of this size have worn off centuries ago. I believe the British Ministry has to re-apply its transfiguration every ten years or so, and that must be a fraction of the size of this cave. You know, an Abenaki tribesmen once told me an alternative theory about the limitations of such a transfiguration-“ She stopped suddenly, realizing she had been rambling. Her cheeks burned. “Sorry, I tend to ramble.”

“I think it’s cute. Promise you’ll tell me this alternative theory later?” She nodded towards a tall thin wizard who was walking quickly towards them.

When the man was still several yards away he spoke. 

“Ms. Granger! We’re honored to work with you.” He had a reedy voice that Hermione was not particularly keen to continue to hear. “And Ms. Delacour of course.” He tacked on without looking away from Hermione. “Wallis Wallings at your service.” 

Mr. Wallings dipped into a deep bow with a flourish of his hand. He reminded Hermione rather unpleasantly of Percy Weasley. 

“Unspeakable Wallings would you please show Ms. Granger the progress the team has made thus far?” Fleur spoke in a clipped tone. 

“Of course. Right this way my ladies.”

The two women exchanged a looked as he turned around. Wallis, oblivious, continued talking, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked. 

“It’s lucky we were able to get you on this project, Ms. Granger, we, me and a few of the crew that is, had a bet on whether or not you’d pick this up. I bet in your favor, of course.”

He turned at the end, and Hermione rewarded him with a grimace that she hoped would pass as a smile. Wallis seemed to accept it as such and continued his monologue.

“I was brought on the team from another project, can’t disclose what it was, of course, being an unspeakable it’s all very classified, but they needed help and who am I to turn down a colleague in need! Of course I just had to help!”

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of affirmation from the pair. 

“Of course.” Hermione provided in a serious tone after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

She could see the amusement on Fleur’s face plain as day, but Unspeakable Wallings either did not notice the slight or chose to take it in stride. Hermione was willing to bet it was the former.

“So I joined the very first day of this case. I must admit it is all quite confusing. The Unspeakables that were originally assigned, the ones that had been doing archeological work around Britain, rather dull work if you ask me, don’t have any clue as to what we’re facing! If they don’t have a clue after years of working on supposedly similar sites, what hope do the rest of us have? Present company excluded, of course. Brightest Witch of her Age surely has a bit of an edge, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She was saved by a middle aged woman dressed in black trimmed silver wizarding robes. She was an attractive woman, the sort whose beauty was changed rather than diminished by age, giving her a dignified appearance instead of suggesting her best days were in the past. Her red hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the top of her head giving her a severe look. 

“Unspeakable Wallings I believe Team Echo needs your help.” When Wallis hesitated, clearly unwilling to leave, the woman spoke again in her deep voice. “Right away, Wallings.”

“Right, of course. Ms. Granger it was a pleasure meeting you.”

Hermione nodded in turn.

“Head Unspeakable Aurora Rowle. How do you do Ms. Granger?” 

Hermione accepted the outstretched hand, quite unsurprised at the firm grasp the woman had. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Head Unspeakable. I’m excited to start work.”

“I must say, we’re quite excited to have you working on this. Ms. Delacour here insisted we try to bring you in. I don’t know the last time she hasn’t been able to solve a case on her own.”

Fleur, Hermione noticed, had a trace of pink across her cheeks. 

“It’s a nasty case. The Aurors are up and arms about the lack of suspects. They prefer to hex and ask questions later- won’t do much good here as all the suspects have been dead and gone for a thousand years.”

“You don’t think someone did this?”

“I think the runes are decaying. Whether or not this resulted in the attack remains to be seen.” She paused. “By you, I suppose.” 

Head Unspeakable Rowle drew out a pocket watch, examined it, and snapped it closed.

“I’m afraid I can’t linger: I have to get back to London.” Focusing on Fleur, she continued. “I trust the team here will be capable of bringing you up to speed.”

Fleur offered a tight smile and a nod. This was enough for the older woman, who turned her attention back to Hermione. 

“I expect an update every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. No later than 4 p.m.”

With that, she strode past them, her robes billowing behind her as she walked towards the entrance of the cave.

“She seems fun.” Hermione said. 

“You should see her drunk.”

“No! What happened?”

“I have no idea. I should see her drunk too. I think she has a wild side.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she did. They walked the short way to the illuminated site where a small team was gathered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, of course.
> 
> Who do you guys want to see make a cameo? I have some ideas on who to throw in here, but am open to suggestions.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!! I love your comments.


	9. The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to the site and some of the unspeakables that are working the case. Hermione gets some of her swagger back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS. This took a while, I'm sorry!

They walked to the small group of witches and wizards congregated around a large chalkboard. At the sound of the pair approaching they turned towards the women with varying levels of regard. A man stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

“Hermione, it’s good to see you again. Ernie Macmillan.”

She brightened at the name. It wasn’t entirely surprising that she hadn’t recognized him at first glance. He had grown another couple inches since she last saw him at The Battle. Time had treated him kindly and his previously scrawny features had filled into a handsome face that Hermione was sure endeared many women to him.

“Ernie! You look great!”

“Well it’s been, what, 7 years?”

“9.”

“Blimey that’s mental. You been good?”

“Better, definitely.”

“Good, good. Well I’m one of the researchers on the Delta team.” He pointed at the group gathered behind him. “We’re in charge of the reversal efforts- trying to repair the damage done to the wards.”

Hermione remembered the breakdown of each team’s responsibilities from the file she had been given that weekend. There were three teams: Echo Team, in charge of identifying all triggered events caused by the disruption, Alpha Team, focusing on _what_ caused the disruption, and the Delta Team, responsible for all repair. Hermione had assumed that encompassed the damage done to the surrounding area as well.

“Not the streets?”

He scoffed. “Please. We don’t need to waste our time with that. Some junior Aurors took care of it.”

Hermione gave an indulgent smile. “Who do you report to?”

“You, I suppose. Or Professor Delacour.” He added, nodding in Fleur’s direction. “We don’t really _do_ hierarchies on site. Weekly report responsibilities are rotated each week. We find it gives a more inclusive feeling to the team, really gets the camaraderie going you know?”

Hermione, who had never really done the whole teamwork thing, most certainly did not know.

“Makes sense to me.”

She had, naturally, been a part of a semblance of a team when working with Ron and Harry, but for the most part her contributions were individual ones. She wasn’t hurrying to ask Harry his opinion on basilisks vs cockatrices or run theory by Ron on the protean charm. Her research was, and had always been, solitary.

“You got the research brief right?” At her nod he continued, “Disaster of a file, that is. Thousands of pages to tell you we know next to nothing. I’m relieved you’ve taken up the case, the Prophet has been sending ‘subtle’ reporters to ‘investigate’ our work.” He emphasized his words with air quotes and a dramatic eye roll. “Nasty bit o’ work those reporters are.”

He turned towards the blackboard and continued talking without waiting for a response.

“Here’s everything we know for certain.”

The blackboard had two pieces of parchment pinned to it.

“That’s it?”

“For certain, it is. The report you got is speculation, preliminary research, and tangential theories that likely have little relevance to the case. We thought you might want it all anyway.”

Hermione nodded in place of replying. She leaned closer to the board to read what had been printed. Fleur spoke up at the same time.

“We know the wards were set up as a protection of sorts a very long time ago in a way that we’ve never seen before. That’s about the extent of it.”

Hermione hummed. Still, she read the parchment, which unsurprisingly came to the same conclusion as Fleur, albeit in a more verbose way.

“Where are the other teams?” She asked when she had finished reading.

“Echo is at the flank of the cave, Alpha is in Muggle downtown. Delta is here.” He motioned to the witches and wizards who had been watching to the side.

“I’d like daily reports every morning from each team here on out. You don’t need to summarize or edit, just write down any and all thoughts your team has come up with. Is there a photographer on staff?”

“A photographer? What for?” Ernie said in a surprised tone.

“Generally, to take photographs.” Fleur chimed in.

Hermione shot her a look before addressing the entire team she had up until this point been ignoring. She rolled back her shoulders and spoke in a commanding voice.

“I’d like to get one here as soon as possible to record each rune pillar. Anytime anyone tries a new spell on one, whether that be to disarm, rearm, destroy, or repair, a photographer should be there to record it. Basic diagnostics is fine to go ahead without, but anything, and I mean anything, even remotely resembling experimental I want recorded.”

Fleur couldn’t help but feel a little surprised at the self-assured tone Hermione’s voice now took. She wondered when she first developed it.

The rest of the team tried unsuccessfully to hide their groans at the command. This meant more work. A lot more work.

“With all do respect, Ms. Granger,” A shrill voice spoke out from back of the small group, “what would that accomplish? It seems to me it would only being adding more work! I understand you’re just now getting on the case, but we’ve been instructed to solve this as quickly as possible!”

A couple of the group nodded sagely at her words while the others looked distinctly uncomfortable. Hermione was pleased those in agreement were in the minority, at least on this team.

“Unspeakable.. ?”

“Bulstrode, Amanda Bulstrode.”

Hermione wondered what, if any, relation she had to Millicent Bulstrode; a rather unpleasant girl that had been on the giving end of many of the insults Hermione had thrown her way at Hogwarts. They had a similar pudgy face, but the woman in front of her had hardly any extra weight on her body, giving her an unfortunate cartoonish look that leant her no favors in beauty.

“Unspeakable Bulstrode. It has been approximately a week since the attack no?” She didn’t wait for a confirmation. “In that week, despite what I can only assume is your teams’ best work, you have come up with a grand total of two pieces of parchment of relevant information. Two pieces that are, as I am sure you are aware, scarcely populated and leave quite a bit to be desired. In fact, there was little more than a paragraph in the preliminary report your teams wrote until Professor Delacour was brought in four days ago. We may have external pressures on us to solve this as quickly as possible, but as your complete lack of results have indicated, that is a pipe dream that we cannot afford to entertain any longer. We will not be able to stumble through the dark and find our answers. We’ll have to be deliberate and exact. Having proper documentation allows us to do just that without having to run around in circles. I trust you’re well enough acquainted with my credentials to understand that nothing I do in this case will be without reason. Now, who on this team wants to write my report for today?”

Ernie covered a snort with a cough.

“I can.”

“Great, I trust one of you will relay the information to the other teams?”

At the groups nod, Hermione turned her attention to Fleur, who was staring at her with an unreadable expression on her face.

“Fleur, could you help me set up a work station?”

Fleur blinked. “Oui, I’ll show you to mine.”

Hermione looked at the team with a raised eyebrow. “You may work now.”

She felt a sense of satisfaction as they scampered back to their work.

Fleur touched Hermione’s left arm lightly to direct her towards a large desk facing one of the cave walls. There were several desks scattered about the middle of the cave, most were adorned with books, scrolls, and excavating equipment. Most of the workers did not return to them, instead dispersing in pairs to various pillars around the front and middle of the cave. It was clear the desks were occupied only to fill out reports or elaborate on hastily made notes.

Hermione could feel Fleur’s gaze on her.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“What? No.”

“Is there another reason you’re looking at me like that?”

“I’ve only been working with the teams for a few days, and already I ‘ad the sense Unspeakable Bulstrode ‘as never once been talked to like that.”

“Well, perhaps she should think before she speaks next time.”

“That might be asking too much of ‘er.”

As they approached the desk, this one much more organized than the others, Fleur nodded to the space to the left.

“You can set up here if you like.”

“Wanting me nearby Fleur?”

“All the better to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh? Do I require supervision?”

Hermione had never been particularly confident at school when it came to flirting. It was like flying; something that could not be learnt from books but from experience alone. Somehow she never had the time to flex those muscles between saving the wizarding world. It wasn’t until much later when she looked back on some of her conversations with her classmates that she realized they weren’t just being nice- they were attempting, and failing, to flirt with her. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been as satisfactory as it was to come to the conclusion that Demelza Robins had not actually been concerned with her Transfiguration grade (Hermione had learned she was quite adept at the subject when an issue of Transfiguartion Today featured a full page spread of Demelza’s newest research), but instead was hoping to woo the older girl over late night library study sessions. Hermione had found that she rather liked flirting. It was a wit of sorts, and she considered wit to be akin to intellect. And Hermione Granger was nothing if not intelligent. She thought of it as a way to sharpen her mind. Plus, it was particularly entertaining to try and render her opponent silent.

Fleur had put her on her back-foot, a product of her thrall, Hermione had no doubt, but she was determined to not allow Fleur to have the upper-hand any longer.

“I find it best to err on the side of caution, no?”

“Seems convient.”

“Are you suggesting I have ulterior motives?”

“I’m merely making observations.” She broke her eye contact with Fleur to quickly transfigure a small boulder into a suitable desk that was much larger than Fleur’s.

“Compensating for something?” Fleur, who up until this point had managed to keep a straight face, even if her eyes had betrayed her amusement, now broke into smirk.

Hermione snorted. “You caught me.”

Another rock was transformed into a comfortable looking chair that Hermione collapsed into. She reached into her back to pull out the report from her bag. While the previous days had been spent reading through it, she now sought to separate the relevant information from the superfluous into a more streamlined and organized version.

“You mentioned similarities to Native American warding?”

“Similarities, yes. I’m not sure if it’s a coincidence of technique or a direct application.”

“What part of the site are these present?”

Fleur thought for a moment before responding. “Most of it, I suspect. But it’s mostly concentrated to the center.”

She pointed to the immediate right of the chalkboard where a pair of witches on the Delta team were surrounding a small mound of rock. Hermione couldn’t make out the individual runes from this distance, but could see faint outlines.

“I’ll start there then. At least until the teams give me their daily report. What do you want to work on?”

“I’ve been focused on the categorization of each pillar. Hopefully setting up a map of sorts of the classifications will prove useful.”

  
  
Hermione nodded. Often with complex warding systems such as this the creator had several distinct sections of warding that focused on an individual task. For example, one cluster of pillars was designated to expel those with ill intent, while another was focused on disillusioning the warded area. Hogwarts had many clusters of pillars that surrounded the campus.

“Keep me updated on the progress, will you? I think you’re on the right track.”

Fleur smiled. “Of course.”

  
Hermione pulled the report together and started to work.

* * *

As often happened when she was engrossed in her work, Hermione was completely unaware of the passage of time. She had been working nearly without break, the exception being a short 5 minute lunch where she scarfed down a pre-packed sandwich. Her concentration was broken by a hand placed softly on her shoulder and a quiet “It’s time to go.”

“You go ahead I’m in the middle of something.” She spoke automatically.

“It’s nearly 8, and the work will still be here tomorrow.”

Hermione reluctantly tore her gaze from the report.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m just going to write down my thoughts.” She paused, drawing on her Gryffindor bravery before adding, “If you want to walk back together?”

The moment of apprehension was well worth it when Hermione was rewarded with a wide smile.

“I’d love to. I’ll wait by the chalkboard.” She jerked her head in its direction.

Hermione followed Fleurs indication only to be shocked by the lack of people.

“Where is everyone?”

“Did I not say it was nearly 8?”

“When did they leave?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“If I said it was to continue work would you believe me?”

“Yes?”

Hermione was confused when Fleur looked amused at her response.

“Well, then I was still working.”

Hermione nodded seriously.

“There’s so much to do here. I can’t believe how intricate the rune system is. This will take months.”

“In that case leaving now really won’t make much of a difference in the long run will it?”

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

“Finish up Hermione, you have five minutes before I drag you out myself.”

“Oh? You think you could take me all by yourself?”

Fleur hummed. “If properly motivated. I’ve been known to ‘take people.’”

“I think you’ll find I’m not most people.”

“No, I suspect you’d require a bit more handling than others.”

Hermione, who up until this point had been doing an admirable job of holding her own, if she did say so herself, was left speechless. Her eyesight dropped quickly to Fleur’s lips before snapping her gaze back to the report.

“5 minutes.”

“Pas une minute de plus.”

Four minutes later they were walking back towards the center of the city. They passed the time discussing anything but the case, at Fleur’s insistence, and quickly found themselves standing outside of Hermione’s building.

“You’re not far are you?” Hermione had a sudden fear of Fleur walking alone in the dark despitethe rational part of herself knowing that she was more than capable of protecting herself.

“You could say I live close by.” Fleur said with a smirk.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but refused to comment. Instead, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She turned back towards the entrance when she didn’t hear the front door close. Fleur was only a step behind her.

“I live in this building too ‘ermione. The ministry owns the entire building- everyone on the case is assigned an apartment.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that earlier?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love boss ass bitch Hermione. 
> 
> Giving myself a week for the next chapter, if not sooner, so yell at me if I don't update by then.


	10. Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is hit with a realization.

Over the next week Fleur and Hermione found a rhythm. Each morning at precisely 7:45am Fleur would knock on Hermione’s door while Hermione pretended to not be waiting and ready to go for the last 10 minutes. They’d stop at a little café at the end of Cowgate where Fleur would get a flat white and Hermione an English Breakfast tea with one sugar and a splash of milk. Fleur would tease her for fulfilling stereotypes as they strolled the remainder of journey.

They were always the first to arrive, besides the morning reports that were banished to Hermione’s desk by whomever had drawn the shortest stick the night prior. While they finished the last dregs of their drinks, they would throw out any and all theories that crossed their minds- each more outlandish than the last. Hermione’s favorite thus far had been a particularly inspired idea proposed by Fleur which involved Professor Umbridge making an alliance with the North American Wendigos to alter the runes to ensure that any clothes that touched her person were turned a brilliant shade of pink.

When Hermione questioned how Wendigos would even change the runes, Fleur dismissed her with a dramatic swish of her hair and a “it’s a Veela secret.” Hermione still wasn’t sure what Veela had to do with Wendigos.

It was, in a word, nice. It reminded Hermione of days at the Treehouse where there was always something to do: a problem to fix, a meal to cook, or a fight to disrupt. But this satisfied the intellectual itch that had been unable to be scratched when she was in Québec. The very same itch that had caused her to leave.

It was because of this routine that when Monday rolled around after a weekend of Hermione dodging summons to the Burrow with half-hearted “perhaps next week?”, that she found herself waiting impatiently just behind her front door at 7:30.

Her foot started tapping at 7:35. 7:40 found Hermione absentmindedly changing the color of her scarf in a vain attempt to distract herself. She straightened up at 7:45.

By 7:50 Hermione was glaring at the door in such intensity it was a wonder the thing hadn’t burst into flame. At 7:53 she decided to go to Fleur, before realizing with a start that she didn’t actually know which apartment she lived in.

She scowled as she contemplated her next move. A part of her, that she desperately ignored, wanted to go and knock on each and every door until she found the correct one and she could give Fleur the verbal lashing she deserved for missing their unofficial meeting. But that would be irrational. Obviously.

Instead, Hermione decided to wait for 7, now 6, more minutes, and if Fleur didn’t show then Hermione would just have to suck it up and walk by herself. Something she was more than capable of doing! Yes, make no mistake Hermione Granger is more than capable of walking sans a beautiful French witch. Capable, yes. Desired? Certainly not.

She couldn’t help but feel snubbed. Really, the _nerve_ of the woman! How hard was it to send a patronus ahead to say that Hermione was being unceremoniously dropped from Fleur’s morning routine? It was what was done in polite society. Hermione swore then and there if the other woman showed up again she would-

There was a knock at the door. Hermione took several generous deep breaths so as to attempt to quell the anger and indignity she felt lingering deep in her stomach; a task that she had undertaken countless times in her lifetime only for her to actually succeed enough times to count on one hand. Nevertheless, she tried. She opened the door.

Fleur stood there looking, dare Hermione say, uncomfortable. Up until this point Hermione didn’t think Fleur could _feel_ uncomfortable, never mind look it. She had seen the other witch incensed, impatient, miffed, but never uncomfortable. Fleur’s ability to be comfortable in the most uncomfortable of positions, i.e Molly Weasley’s face-to-face not-so-subtle digs, was in fact number 8 on Hermione’s mental list of potential Veela abilities. It was sandwiched between number 7. Persuasion Despite Victim’s Previous Disdain for Whatever Task the Veela Thought Would be Funny to Make Victim Do, and number 9. Getting the Last Word in No Matter What the Conversation was Actually About.

Hermione was sure she had never been as glad as she was now to have the ability to raise a single eyebrow. And raise it she did.

“Bonjour.”

Silence.

“I am sorry I’m late, I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

Silence.

“Well, if you’re just going to stand there and not talk I’ll be on my way!”

No, no, no, that would not do. Hermione couldn’t have Fleur reverting back to irritation, an emotion the French witch was well known for, when she had her in such uncharted territory! If she was going to completely dismiss Rule No. 8, then she was going to at least come up with a new Rule!

“Why were you late?”

Satisfaction rained supreme as Fleur’s face morphed back into the uncomfortable look she had arrived with.

“I, ah, had a personal matter to attend to.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“One could say that. Do you still want to walk?”

“Well we might have to cut out the drink stop, but I suppose I can suffer.”

“What bravery.”

“I was a Gryffindor you know.”

“A fact I find difficult to forget.”

It was time to investigate. The memory of No. 8 would _not_ stand to be forgotten. An innocent sounding question would do to lure in the unsuspecting victim, ahem, woman in to a false sense of security.

“So, what did you get up to this weekend?”

“I visited my family in France.”

“Oh? When did you get back?”

“About 7 minutes ago.”

Really. _How_ was Hermione supposed to compare to a witch who had just come from an international journey at 7:54 in the morning looking as though she just stepped off the runway at Paris Fashion Week.

“That explains the state of disarray I suppose.”

Disarray indeed. Fleur had precisely one lock of hair out of place on her otherwise flawless head, _completely normal and not at all noteworthy head_ Hermione was sure to note, that the British witch was itching to brush into place. She restrained herself.

Fleur didn’t dignify the comment with an answer; instead choosing to roll right along.

“Ready to go?”

“Let’s go then.”

Hermione let the conversation fall into familiar territory as they walked.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a target you were paid to perform a hit on.”

“You don’t what me to hit on you?”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

It was time for a pivot.

“How was your family? Did you see your little sister… Genevieve was it?”

“Gabrielle. Physically they’re fine, but there’s been a bit of unrest in the French Ministry. A new law just passed preliminary rounds that sets certain… restrictions on the Veela.”

Hermione felt the desire get the better of Fleur drain away.

“Oh Merlin. I’m sorry. Has anything like this happened before?”

She knew British legislation was insufficient and at times outright insulting towards the magical creatures that resided in the isles. It was her understanding that despite its recent improvements it was considered barbaric by many other Ministries, America was one such instance, so it came as a surprise that the French Ministry would enact any such law that would attempt to regulate another species; particularly one it had traditionally held in seemingly high regard.

“Non. The Ministry has always allowed us to rule ourselves, as it should!” Fleur was beginning to grow more incensed. She was gesticulating in a way not unlike Hermione did when impassioned, but with a severe edge that made clear that Fleur was frustrated.

“What’s the new law?” She rushed to add, “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“They want to track our population.” Fleur nearly spat.

It appeared Hermione had misjudged Fleur’s emotions. It was not uncomfortableness that had marred her features. Hermione chastised herself for being so utterly _daft._

“Well that’s just absurd!”

Fleur hummed in agreement, but made no move to continue the conversation. “What did you get up to?”

“Oh this and that” She waved her hand dismissively. It wouldn’t do to say she sat in her apartment in solitude the entire weekend, only venturing out for an occasional meal, and an admittedly large bottle of cheap wine. “What are you planning on doing about the law?”

“I don’t know.” Fleur snapped in annoyance. Hermione’s eyes widened. Fleur took a deep breath before saying, in a much calmer voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I’m just worried and I’ve had maybe seven hours of sleep over the last two nights."

“You don’t have to explain. I shouldn’t have pried. But if you want to talk my door’s always open.”

Fleur softened. “Merci. It is good, I think, that you are here.”

Hermione was struck in this moment that she did not know Fleur. Sure, they had enjoyed a bit of banter over the last week, and yes, they had fought alongside one another in the war, but she didn’t know the date of Fleur’s birthday, or what her favorite season was and why, or what silly childhood fear had stuck with her to adulthood. She was essentially a stranger masquerading as a friend.

The conversations that they had had up until this point had nothing of personal value. Hermione resolved to fix that. She pushed No. 8 into a neat little box in the back of her head that she could come back to in due course.

“So Fleur. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I don’t want to say our friendship is contingent on you answering correctly, but it may just change the way I think of you if you answer wrong.” She paused for dramatic effect; making a clear effort to take a deep breath and steel herself for what she was about to say. “What is your favorite season?”

Fleur, who had been steadying herself for a particularly controversial question, could not stop the bright laugh that escaped her.

Hermione fought to rein in her own smile as she attempted to keep up her facade. She was only partially successful.

“Fall.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Why?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not sweltering ‘ot like it is in the summer, nor is it frigid like the winter.” She made a show of shivering. “I still have not grown accustomed to the Scottish air in winter. It is miserable. Absolutely miserable.”

“I suppose it can be rather depressing. Why not spring?”

“It’s too muddy.”

Hermione winced. It wasn’t particularly noticeable, Hermione herself hardly realized she had, but someone who was staring directly at her, like Fleur was, it was nearly impossible to miss.

“You don’t like the dirt?”

“Something like that. Bad memories I suppose.”

“Ah, yes I ‘ave noticed some students like to parade around the grounds no matter the state of the grass at the first indication of Spring.”

“Fleur, could you honestly see me traipsing across the grounds in the mud?”

“You do not strike me as someone with a light constitution.”

Hermione snorted.

“I think I forever lost any trace of daintiness the moment I was attacked by that mountain troll.”

“Pardon, I thought I just heard you say mountain troll?”

And just like that, Hermione was retelling the story of how she gained her two best friends. Best friends that she was determined not to blow off this weekend, Merlin as her witness.

* * *

By the time they reached the cave, the awkward tension between the two had evaporated. For the first time since Hermione had started the case, she was not the first person to the site. She wasn’t even the tenth. Most of the Unspeakables were present and already diligently working.

The ministry had allowed two photographers. They were already overworked, despite only being on the case for about three days. One of the photographers, Jason, if memory served correct, was a tall thin man, so thin that you would struggle to find any indication he was anything but a skeleton with a thin skin. He had an even thinner mustache that was hardly recognizable for what it was at any distance beyond 3 feet. His coworker, Richard, might as well have been his exact opposite. Where Jason was thin, Richard was fat, where Jason was tall, Richard would have barely reached Hermione’s shoulders with a top hat on. Where they differed in appearance they made up for in a shared personality that was anything but pleasant. Neither Hermione nor Fleur could fault the staff on their unanimous disdain for the men. It had proved quite the task for Hermione to manage both the emotions of the Unspeakables and the photographers enough to ensure everyone actually did the work required of them. It was not enjoyable.

Hermione had never been a people person. She just couldn’t bring herself to waste the time understanding each and every persons’ emotions enough to figure out how to interact with them. It was part of the reason she was never particularly popular in school. If she knew something that would help another, why shouldn’t she bring it to their attention? But according to nearly everyone that was the hallmark of a know it all. She had long since come to terms with it.

It was such a disagreeable task that when Amanda Bulstrode came straight at them, dragging an indignant Richard by the scruff, an exacerbated expression plastered across her face, Hermione held up a hand before either could get out a word.

“I’m _sure_ you aren’t here to complain about the other’s work, seeing as we already covered that on Friday. If there is _something else_ you may talk to Fleur about it.”

Hermione ignored Fleur’s angered glare and strode to her desk. Perhaps she was still a bit bothered by the other witch’s tardiness, even if it was caused by a good reason. She never claimed to not be petty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a deadline is met (barely)! woo.
> 
> I thought it was important to mention that the two really don't know each other that well. They'll start to though : )
> 
> Do you guys want to hear more about the runes? I can go more in depth about it, or keep it at a minimum. Some is necessary for the ~plot~, but if you all don't find it interesting I don't want to make you to read it to get the other stuff. Personally, I like it.
> 
> Also! LMK any situations you'd like to see our girls in and I'll try and weave it into the story. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!!


	11. The day returns, but nevermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warding practices are explained, and surprises are sprung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the scene inspo in the comments last chapter! I will try and weave a couple in :)  
> lmk if you have more ideas- I might not use it, but I do enjoy reading them

Discovering wards was an exercise in tedium. It didn’t particularly matter how skilled the witch or wizard was, or for that matter, how powerful they were. It came down to patience… and a knack for enduring boredom. Unfortunately for Hermione, the Unspeakable teams she oversaw were used to dealing with the mysteries of the Universe, and were thus accustomed to more exciting and engaging tasks like weaving together the fabric of time. She could hardly blame them for their wavering focus when she knew they were being held from such projects. If she, someone who had been able to act every part the diligent student through Professor Binns’ lessons, found the task boring she could only imagine what the others were feeling.

Despite her empathy she couldn’t help but feel annoyed. Her know-it-all persona seemed to be cemented in the minds of her colleagues. She could hear their mutters after she reprimanded a slacking Unspeakable. It wasn’t new. It would be all well and good if it was just insults: she didn’t at all mind what they called her, especially when they were essentially insulting her for having an above-average intelligence, there were worse things to be called, but there was a direct link between their performance and her own. When she sent off her findings report to the Head Unspeakable, she was unable to write more than “continued documentation and observation.” While the department Head had yet to demand better results, Hermione felt like she was once again a school girl who had received a poor grade.

Frustrated with the situation, Hermione took it upon herself to help with the ward uncovering. The ambient magic in the cave was so old and so convoluted that trying to track down an already faint trace of warding magic was near impossible. One had to move slowly so as to not miss a whisper of magic. She decided to tackle one section of the cave at a time until she had covered the entire floor. The entire floor of the very, very, very large cave.

It was why Hermione found herself not 50 feet from her desk staring intently at the cave wall. Her wand clutched in her hand and her faced screwed up in concentration. She did not notice another person standing a few feet behind her watching in silence.

She focused on feeling her surroundings. Slowly, she stepped forward before pausing. When it was clear there was no discernible change, she took another small step. This time she felt a faint pulse of energy. Hermione waited another moment until she was absolutely sure what she felt was indeed what she thought it was. When it became clear it was a pillar trace, she had to make a great effort to quash down the desire to cheer out loud in victory. She managed, but only just. A wide smile graced her face.

Another step forward, this time more confident. The smile slid off her face as quickly as she came. The pulse was gone. She took a step back. The pulse resumed.

The onlooker saw Hermione take several steps back and forth before she buried her face in her hands in frustration. Hermione marked the spot on the floor with a black X before sighing and turning around; starting when she saw who was watching her.

“Ronald! What are you doing here? How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to be bloody confused about what the hell you were just doing.”

“Failing to find the emanated pulse radius.”

“You didn’t just make that up did you?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

He narrowed his eyes as he tried to figure out if she was having him on.

“Right, well, I’m here to bring you to lunch.”

“It’s only just 10.”

“Hermione it’s half past 12.”

“Is it?”

“Mhm. And you’re coming with me whether you like it or not. Go grab your purse or whatever you carry around.”

“Fine, but you’re paying.”

“I’m here on business, sort of, but it’s on the ministry’s dime. So yes, I will pay.”

Hermione shot him a smile before making her way to her desk, Ron in tow. Fleur, who had been focused on the papers in front of her, now looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Smiling at Hermione she said, “Look at you, stopping for lunch on your own accord. Where do you want to go today?”

“Apparently I’m getting kidnapped. Ron’s taking me to lunch.” She motioned to the man who had just appeared at her side.

“Hi Fleur.” Hermione was amused to note the blush that appeared as the man focused on the Veela. “Grabbing Hermione here for a bit of business and catch up. You been good?”

“Quite well.” She said brusquely.

Hermione shot her a questioning look and said, “I’ll be back in an hour or so, do you want me to grab you anything?”

“Non. I will get something later.”

“Alright.” Hermione said still looking at Fleur who was making a valiant effort to focus back on her papers.

Ron coughed. “Shall we then?”

Hermione nodded and they walked towards the entrance. They were nearly at the threshold when Unspeakable Wallings ambushed them, speaking in his usual rush of words.

“Auror Weasley! An honor, truly. I’m Unspeakable Wallings, but you can call me Wallis if you please! I work quite closely with Hermione here, really we’re more like partners than anything. Of course, we often have to work separately, don’t want the others thinking she’s playing favorites, you know.”

“Partners eh? Look at you ‘mione! Finally learning to play nice with others?”

“Can it Ronald. Unspeakable Wallings I’m sorry to say we really must be on our way. If you’d just let us by.”

“Of course! Don’t mind me.” He stepped out of the way after securing an enthusiastic handshake from Ron.

Hermione and Ron emerged from the barrier into the sun.

“You seem to be making friends.”

“Ugh! Don’t get me started. I had been operating under the assumption the Department of Mysteries required an above average intelligence. So far, I’ve nothing to prove it.”

Ron chuckled. “Maybe their intelligence lies elsewhere?”

Hermione gave a non-committal hum in response.

“What are you doing here anyway? And don’t give me the ‘taking you to lunch’ rubbish.”

“Can’t a friend take his newly returned friend out for a nice lunch without a good reason?”

“No.”

“Well in that case, I’m here to talk about the um…” He looked around wildly. Pleased with whatever it was he was searching for he continued. “incident. You remember I told you I was heading up the cleanup? Well there’s been another disturbance, this time in York.”

“Disturbance? What do you mean?”

“Let’s wait until we get to lunch, yeah?”

They walked the short distance to a small café, where they asked for the corner booth and, at Ron’s insistence, two pints of beer. Ron, showing a foresight that had been absent in his youth, cast a silencing charm on their booth. In typical Hermione fashion, she wasted no time asking Ron questions.

“Why are you being so paranoid?”

“Did you read the Daily Prophet yesterday?”

“No, I was busy.” Busy watching re-runs of Twin Peaks, but that was strictly on a need-to-know basis.

“You might want to give it a look. They’re digging into your case like crazy.”

“Don’t they always?”

“Normally, I’d say yes, but this time they’re diving in deeper than normal. I don’t know where they got half their information. They shouldn’t have it. Apparently the ministry is ’withholding vital information to the public’. As if this wasn’t an official investigation! They’ve been following my team around the last week- I think you’ve escaped because you’ve been holed up at the site. You should be careful though, they have ears everywhere.”

“Perhaps Rita needs to be reacquainted with my favorite mason jar?”

Ron laughed. “It’s not Rita this time. Some new reporters are covering it. But that’s not why I’m here.”

He took a sip of his drink, savoring the flavor before shaking his head and beginning to talk again.

“Last night there was a bombing down in Manchester.”

“A bombing? Isn’t that a concern for muggles?”

“It would be, yeah, but it wasn’t in muggle part. It was placed directly between a solicitors’ office and an estate agent company in the Wizarding section of the city.”

“Merlin. And it was a completely muggle device?”

“According to our forensics, yes. I think they called it a bipe bomb? It was triggered by magic though- a spell of some sort.”

“Pipe bomb?”

“That’s the one.”

“How many were injured? And how would they even know how to make one? It’s not exactly common knowledge. Especially not in the wizarding world.”

“4 dead, another 3 injured. We’re not sure. We think it must be someone familiar with the muggle world. How else would they be able to build it?”

“Any leads?”

“No, actually. That’s why I’m here. They’re calling off most of the team from your case. Top dogs are saying this was likely just a natural breakdown: a tragic accident, but an accident none-the-less. We can’t afford to spend the time on this anymore. Besides, the cleanup is done anyway.”

“We haven’t even had an ounce of evidence to suggest it’s an accident! I would never classify it as such until I was 100% sure.” Her voice grew more shrill as her frustrations increased. “Are my Unspeakable teams getting pulled too?” She nearly spat, before remembering who she was talking with and quelling some of the anger from her voice.

He held up his hands in surrender. “I never said you did. I think the higher ups are just worried about public opinion. The bombing killed 2 purebloods and 2 half-bloods, while this was all muggles.”

“23 muggles died because of our world!”

“I know ‘mione. It’s not right, but it’s what’s happening.” He continued speaking before she could argue again. “As to your teams, I’m not sure.” He frowned. “The Head Unspeakable hasn’t contacted you?”

The distraction worked. “No, not that I’m aware. She must be swamped with work.”

“Hermione, I wouldn’t bet on keeping your team for much longer. This kind of attack hasn’t been seen since the War. They want all hands on deck.”

“Great. Wonderful. Absolutely ideal.”

Ron gave her a sympathetic look. “Any progress?”

Their food arrived a little cold and not at all up to par, if you asked Hermione. She wondered if it was the restaurant’s fault or just the news that spoiled the taste. Ron seemed to be enjoying it though, his sandwich disappearing not long after it was first placed down. Then again, Hermione was hard-pressed to remember a time where Ron didn’t demolish his meal. 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Fleur thinks there’s a similarity to some Northern American runes, but beyond the runic design of a pillars, we haven’t found anything to support that. Even she says it’s a bit of a stretch. We can’t even find the wards. We’ve been searching for over a week and have only found two.”

“What do you mean find the wards? Isn’t it just a spell? Like what you did when we were on the run?’”

“Honestly Ron, you would have gotten so much more out of ancient runes than divination. Can you even remember a single lesson of Trelawney’s?”

“I’ll have you know I remember several! First: when in doubt it’s a grim in your tea leaves, second: there is such thing as too much incense, third: always be vague and people will fill in the blanks, and fourth” he stopped. “Fourth… well I forget but there’s something!”

“Quite essential lessons I see.” She said smiling. “There are two main types of wards: cast and runic. Cast wards are essentially short-term solutions. They work, and can work quite well, but don’t expect them to hold up for an extended period of time. You’d have to constantly remember to recast them. These are what we used on the run, as we were never anywhere long enough for the protections to wear off. Runic, which uses runes to stabilize the magic, allows the protections to last decades if not centuries, often with little to no upkeep. Hogwarts uses runic wards.”

“Huh, so there are pillars around Hogwarts?”

“Yes, you’d know that if you ever even cracked open Hogwarts, a History.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: why read it when I can just ask you instead?”

She rolled her eyes but continued anyway. “They’re hidden. It wouldn’t do any good for them to be out in the open, would it?”

“So how did Voldy and the Brotherhood of Bumbling Blockheads get by them?”

“I suspect he already knew where they were from his time as a student. Or perhaps from when he came back after graduation. Once you know where one is it’s relatively simple to disarm.”

She reached across the table to grab a white napkin and pulled out a pen from her bag.

“Hogwarts protections use the standard Pictish warding formation. It’s what is almost exclusively taught at Hogwarts, at least in my time, and is considered the default approach to permanently warding a location. An area is enclosed by a number of pillars; each containing several runes detailing the type of protection or enchantment it provides. The pillars are all different: one might be to prevent apparition, another to hide the enclosure from outside views, you get the picture. The pillars are positioned around an area…”

She drew several small circles.

“Now each one of these pillars has a particular energy radius whose size is determined by the inscribed runes and the power and skill of the wizard who created it. Some may be more powerful than others, but it’s the wizard’s responsibility to know precisely how large the diameter will be. It’s part of the reason why arithmancy is so tightly tied to ancient runes. The goal is to just brush against the border of the adjacent pillar’s energy field. Like so.”

“A skilled warder is able to predict the precise measurements of each of the pillar’s energy dimensions. The more precise the measurement, the less energy the warder has to put in, and the less energy is wasted ‘floating’ about. When the energy fields all touch they create something akin to a muggle circuit. Essentially, it allows the magic derived from each of the pillars to flow to the others along the perimeter. When the circuit is complete it creates an enclosed area like this."

She drew along the outside of the circles. When the line was closed, the line and the entire enclosure turned red.

“The perimeter extends upwards and inwards. The height of the enclosure is either determined by a central ward,” She tapped the center of her drawing, “or, if no central ward is present, by an average of sorts of the power of the perimeter wards. Now, if one of the wards is destroyed, the circuit is broken and the energy doesn’t flow.”

She vanished one of the circles with a flick of her hand and the drawing turned grey.

“Pillar energy can only overlap in one spot, so it can’t loop back around. The pillars become nothing more than a slab of stone with some runes etched on the face. All Voldemort had to do was find one of the pillars and destroy it.”

“That seems fragile.”

“It is. Although, most wizards spell the pillars with additional protections to prevent the detection and destruction.”

“Why don’t those spells wear off?”

“They do, but because they’re cast on such a small area it doesn’t burn out quite as quickly. I believe the board of governors has someone reapply those protections to Hogwarts’ pillars about twice a century.”

A chime went off around them startling them both.

“Oh bollocks. It’s already been an hour. I have to go back.”

  
“I should probably go too. We’re getting our new assignments this afternoon.” Ron looked a bit nervous at this.

“I’m sure you’ll get something impressive.”

“Nothing to be done about it now. Oh, hey, Mum told me to tell you that, and I quote, ‘you had better come round this weekend or I’m coming up to you whether you like it or not.’ And she sends her love.”

“Tell her I’ll come. I’ll send an owl later in the week- I’m not exactly sure when will best.”

They parted with a hug that lasted longer than either of them were expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if the warding makes sense. There's more to elaborate on later :)
> 
> Did I 'draw' the diagrams in google docs? Yes, yes I did. We're working with a high budget here. 
> 
> I had to google pipe bomb, so if my NSA agent is reading this: I am NOT planning on making one. Just using the knowledge for an obscure HP pairing. As one does.
> 
> What do you think? Will Hermione actually make it to the burrow, or will she freshen her stake on her couch?


	12. Returns the traveller to the shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives a few visitors- some more welcome than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this update took a bit longer than I thought. On the plus side it's more than double the normal size? Chapters will probably be closer to this length moving forward.
> 
> There is a *brief* mention about suicidal thoughts, just a heads up.

Hermione was so wrapped up in her thoughts as she walked back to the cave that she didn’t notice the small group of reporters until they were standing directly in front of her, greeting her with a camera flash that had her blinking away her temporary blindness.

“Ms. Granger! Are you part of the Ministry information suppression efforts? Why don’t you believe that the public deserves to know about the threats it faces?”

A male reporter spoke quickly and loudly. Hermione winced.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’d recommend you talk with the Ministry. Now if you excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Where have you been for the last decade? Is it true you were in South Africa?” Another called out.

Her silence only served to encourage them. “What do you have to say about the current rumors of affair between you and Mr. Weasley? Is it true you cheated ten years ago and caused your split?”

“No it is absolutely _not_ true. Ronald and I are nothing but _friends._ Now if you don’t step aside in the next three seconds I will hex you into next week.”

He wisely took her advice, but before he did, managed to snap another photograph of her, this time less frazzled and more angered.

She chose to apparate the short distance to the entrance, not wanting to risk another ambush.

Hermione was still processing what the hell just happened when she sat down heavily in her seat. Fleur, who had watched her brisk approach while picking absentmindedly at an impressively average salad, gave her a few seconds to collect herself.

“Are you alright? Did Ron say something?”

“What? Oh no. Well yes he did but that’s not what I’m upset about. There were reporters outside.”

Fleur tutted in understanding. “I’ve heard they’ve been ‘arrassing some of the staff. Not ‘aving to deal with them is one of the few perks to working late and starting early.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting. I should have known better than to assume they somehow had developed a moral code in the last decade.”

“Which reporter was it?”

“I’m not sure. I really only know Rita Skeeter.”

“Ah I know Rita well.” Her expression darkened. “I can’t say I can think of a single positive thing about her. Some of the other reporters are better than others. I’m sorry you seemed to get one of the more aggressive ones.”

“It is what it is. Can’t say I’m surprised, really. I certainly have made it worse for myself by not showing face in Britain sooner.”

“Don’t blame their actions on yours. They are not the same, and it does no good to try and connect the two.”

Hermione gave her a soft smile in thanks, but changed the subject. “You haven’t heard from the Head Unspeakable have you?”

“Non, why?”

“Ron mentioned she should be reaching out soon.” She looked around at the other teams who were paying the two witches no mind. “There was an attack in Manchester. 4 dead, 3 injured. The Aurors have no leads yet besides that it was done with a muggle bomb.”

“‘ow ‘orrible. When did it ‘appen?”

“Last night. That’s why Ron was here. They’re abandoning this site. Ron says they were done with the cleanup anyway, but he thinks they’re likely to take some of the Unspeakables off the case.”

“But we ‘ave nothing! Two wards, zat is it! It would take weeks with everyone ‘ere, without zen it will take months.” She grew frustrated, her accent thickening as she spoke.

“I know.” Hermione’s face turned to one of steeled determination. “I’ll fight to keep as many of them on.”

Fleur decided to borrow some of Hermione’s determination for herself. “Let’s come up with a plan then. Outline exactly how many we think we need, and how many can be spared.”

Hermione lit up. “A plan I can do!”

They worked the rest of the afternoon analyzing the staff. Many were here mostly as man power, and had little to no experience with runes or warding at all. They put those firmly into the “spare” pile. When they finished they felt confident with their recommendations: a team of 8 should remain, excluding the two of them, while the others could return to their previous projects or be reassigned to the bombing case.

They had just finished at around 4:30 when the Head Unspeakable herself walked into the cave.

The other Unspeakables went silent as she passed them on her way to the two witches.

“Ms. Granger, a moment if you please.”

Fleur gave her an encouraging smile and pushed the parchment with their plan into her hands.

“Of course, Head Unspeakable.”

They went towards the back of the cave to a quieter section. The others in the cave stared at them, but Rowle quickly cast a silencing charm around Hermione and herself, along with a charm that obstructed the others vision of the conversation that was about to occur.

“I trust you’ve heard about the bombing?”

“Yes, Ronald Weasley told me about it this morning.”

“Terrible business. Terrible timing too. I know you’re just beginning your research here, but we need to put several of the Unspeakables back on their original projects.”

“Fleur, I mean Ms. Delacour, and I have a recommendation of which researchers we can spare here.” Hermione moved to hand her the parchment, but was dismissed with a hand wave.

“I think you misunderstand Ms. Granger. The Unspeakables that aren’t returning to their projects will be placed on the bombing case.”

“Head Unspeakable, you can’t be serious! We’re already swamped as is, and that’s with nearly 25 people! Eliminating the teams would be completely detrimental to our work!”

Hermione didn’t have the time nor the focus to appreciate how level her voice sounded; a far cry from the shrillness that seemed to follow her in her youth when under distress.

“If it were up to me, Miss Granger, we would only be pulling a few. But alas, it is not. Two of the victims were very high ranking members of the community.”

“You mean they were purebloods!”

“No, I mean they are high ranking members of the Board of Governors.” She spoke with a sharp edge that made clear she did not appreciate the interruption. “The Wizengamot is up in arms about it. They were none too pleased I had placed as many Unspeakables on this case in the first place.” With a slightly softer tone, she added, “If it’s any consolation, most won’t be going to Manchester.”

“Hardly a consolation. So this case, which affected over 200 people is less important than what? A brain room?”

“You know as well as I that I cannot talk about their research. I appreciate your… enthusiasm on the subject but my hands are tied. The Department of Mysteries shouldn’t even have been involved in this to the extent we were, but initially we thought this to be an attack. An aging ward hardly has precedence over an active bombing. Or our current projects for that matter. You still have Miss Delacour here. I’m confident in both your abilities to settle things here. Now, I cannot stay any longer. Good afternoon Miss Granger.”

She cancelled the privacy charms without so much as a look in Hermione’s direction. Hermione was left feeling as though she had just sustained severe whiplash. _What_ had just happened? Not even a plan, a well thought out, carefully devised plan, had been able to even slightly dissuade Head Unspeakable Rowle.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so completely overruled. She couldn’t say she liked the feeling.

Rowle flicked her wand and several paper airplanes appeared and flew to each researcher. Without stopping to talk with any one of them she left the way she came: with long strides and a dismissive attitude.

Hermione felt a wave of anger wash through her. The _nerve_ of the Ministry to take everyone off this case! She was indignant at being abandoned before she could even begin to make any semblance of progress. As she stalked back to her desk, her anger radiating off her causing her hair to bulk outwards to levels not seen since her Hogwarts days, she thought about how she shouldn’t have been surprised at the order. After all, the Ministry had never been particularly interested in anything involving Muggles, except when the Statute of Secrecy was at risk, so why did she expect them to care now? Naively, she had assumed they had made progress in her absence. Apparently not.

Hermione sulked back to her desk, sinking into chair and burying her face in her hands. Her anger was gone as quickly as it came, and she was left with a feeling of helplessness she was worried she wouldn’t be able to shake. Someone nudged her arm. She glanced up to find Fleur looking at her expectedly.

“Everyone.” Hermione mumbled in response.

“Everyone?”

“Besides us, yes.”

“Merde.”

“That about sums it up.”

The others around them began chatting excitedly as they opened their airplanes to find their new, or old, assignments, and immediately began packing up.

Hermione took a deep breath and cast a sonorus.

“Attention everyone.” The Unspeakables stopped moving, turning their attention to Hermione. “Thank you for your work the last week. Please write one last report before you leave. That will be all.”

Some nodded, some grimaced, but all returned immediately back to their packing. Unwilling to stay any longer, Hermione muttered quietus, said a quick goodbye to Fleur, and rushed out of the cave to the comfort of her apartment.

* * *

Hermione had been wallowing in her sorrow, bundled up securely in a blanket despite the warm June night. She had to cast a chilling charm on the room in order to avoid overheating, but it had given her the appropriate setting for a much needed cozy, woe-is-me, night in. Jack had once found her sequestered away in her tent surrounded by notes and texts on what was supposed to be their relaxing camping weekend away from all work and responsibilities. Upon discovery of her betrayal, he swept her up in his arms and carried her, yelling, kicking, and all, to the fire pit with everyone else. He dropped her unceremoniously onto a log, shoved a stick in her hand, and forced her to learn how to properly roast a marshmallow. When she lit several on fire, prompting the group to laugh at her ineptitude (inexperience! Hermione argued), her mind finally stopped focusing on the work that now laid crumpled on the tent floor. Jack had leaned over to whisper in her ear, “You can’t work properly if you do it all the time. There’s more to life than numbahs, and biology, and whatevah else you do.” It hadn’t meant to be a groundbreaking revelation he was imparting on her, but despite whatever the desired outcome was, that had been the result. She now made an effort to prevent her work following her home, although she was no stranger to working an hour or two from the luxury of her all-too-comfortable couch. She quickly found that the hours she spent at work were more focused and more productive than ever. It was for this reason that Hermione had left the binder of research untouched and unopened on the coffee table favor of her well worn copy of Emma.

There was a cup of peppermint tea that laid abandoned on the side table to her right: an unfortunate side effect of a compelling book that demanded its reader’s undivided attention. When she heard the knock at the door she had half a mind to pretend as though she hadn’t heard it at all, but then she remembered there were no muggle salespeople that could gain entrance to the building and the only person who both knew her apartment number and knew her well enough to knock past 8 was Fleur. She dog eared the page she was own, noting with amusement that she had stopped on the same page in some past reading, and arose from the couch.

She opened the door to find a still properly dressed Fleur. Hermione was too tired to be self conscious of how Fleur’s eyes gave Hermione, outfitted in joggers and an old tank top, a slow once over.

“Bonsoir. I was wondering if you fancied a drink?” She held up a bottle of wine that Hermione hadn’t yet noticed.

It would be rude to turn down such an invitation, surely. Hermione eyed the wine that looked more and more appealing as memories of the day’s events came back to her.

“I fancy several.” She left the door open as she went to the kitchen to grab a pair of glasses.

“I thought it might be useful to drown our sorrows. Perhaps they will not survive it?”

“I have found them to be extraordinarily buoyant, but I’ve never been opposed to develop more evidence."

“A true scientist.”

Hermione was surprised at the term. It was almost exclusively muggle: even some of the most self proclaimed ‘staunch muggle-rights activists’ hardly had a clue what the profession was.

“Are you well acquainted with scientists?” She accepted the extended bottle and opened it quickly, pouring two generous glasses.

“You know Nicolas Flamel, yes?”

“Of course.”

“He was our alchemy professor at Beauxbatons. In the early 1900s he was close with the Curies, they were muggle scientists who worked in Paris in the 1920s. The wife, Marie, was a pioneer for women scientists.”

Hermione had to hide her smile in her wine glass. “I know who the Curies are. I practically worshiped Marie when I was a girl. Did you know her husband and her male colleague were offered the Noble Prize in Physics for her research? Her husband refused, rightfully so, until they agreed to name her as well. The muggle world, for all its modern ideals, was quite far behind its wizarding counterpart at the time.”Her voice, which had ventured firmly into “Hermione gives a lecture” territory was suddenly turned to one of excitement as she exclaimed, “But Nicolas Flamel was your Professor! How lucky! I wanted to owl him after my first year, we had a bit of a run in with the philosophers stone you see, and pick his brain on some of his research. Of course, at 12 years old I could hardly comprehend a quarter of what he has written, but I was so sure that if I had asked I would one day be able to understand. I lost my nerve before I could act on it though.”

“She was an inspiring woman for muggles and witches alike. He liked to do that, draw parallels to his work and the muggle one. He tried to teach us their ingenuity, with mixed results. I ‘ave no doubt that he would ‘ave responded should you ‘ave acted. I’m sorry that you aren’t able to anymore.”

“A tragedy I have long since come to terms with. Do you want to sit?”

They sat on opposite ends of the couch facing each other. At first, they sat in silence. It was comfortable, despite all other indications it should be the opposite. Hermione supposed that nursing someone back to health after days of torture* was similar to defeating a troll in the camaraderie it created.

“About today…” Fleur began.

“I have a strict no work policy after 8, and as it’s,” she checked her watch, “8:14 I will have to overrule whatever you were about to say.”

Fleur looked surprised at the comment. “‘ermione Granger 'as a strict no work policy?”

“Is that so shocking?”

“Oui. Incredibly so.”

“A wise man once told me I would work better with some separation. I have yet to find him incorrect.”

“A wise woman you are, to listen to such counsel.”

“A compliment? From Miss Delacour Herself?”

She huffed. “Is that so shocking?”

“Oui. Incredibly so.”

They laughed until tears threatened to spill from the corner of Hermione’s eyes. She blamed the exhaustion. It was nice to laugh in such an unrestrained manner. The warm feeling she often felt when surrounded by her muggle friends in Maine returned for the first time since coming back to the UK.

“Why is it so cold in ‘ere?”

Fleur wrapped the arm not holding her wine underneath her chest. Hermione’s eyes followed the movement where she found a clear indication of just how cold it was. She blushed before moving her eyes back to Fleur’s face. She thanked Merlin, Morgana, God, and all the deities she never bothered to learn for Fleur’s blank expression.

“I’m sorry! I cast a chilling charm. I, um, like the air to be cold when I, ah.” She stumbled, not quite knowing how to articulate “wrapping herself in a blanket like a giant burrito while reading a romantic classic for the umpteenth time” in such a way to leave herself with a shred of dignity. She instead chose to motion to the blanket and book. And cancel the charm.

Fleur looked amused at Hermione’s attempts of expression as she sat in silence and enjoyed Hermione’s struggle.

After Fleur took pity on her and changed the subject, they talked for another hour until Hermione could no longer hold in the yawns that had been building since she first returned to the apartment. Fleur insisted they table their conversation on Nordic runes for another day. Hermione walked her to the door and leaned against the frame as Fleur stood in the hallway looking reluctant to leave.

“My apartment is 6H, in case you need me.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but was quickly forced into a yawn that caused tears to pool at the corner of her eye while she tried covered with her arm.

Without thinking, Fleur reached her hand to cup Hermione’s face, using her thumb to wipe away the tears that had gathered. She kept her hand there afterwards, relishing in the feeling of holding Hermione, even in this small way.

Hermione was too tired to think much beyond appreciating how warm and comforting Fleur’s hand was.

She gave Fleur a shy smile.

“I think it is time for you to go to bed, mon amie.” Fleur said finally, as she dropped her hand.

“I think you may be right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning. 7:45 don’t be late.”

“I’m never late.”

“Not yet, but you should no better to not speak in absolutes.” Before Hermione could offer a retort Fleur continued. “We’ll get through this. The brightest witch of her age and the Beauxbatons champion? It will be easy.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure she agreed with Fleur, but appreciated the effort. It felt nice having someone offer assurances she couldn’t give herself.

“I hope so. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Fleur nodded. “Tomorrow.”

She walked away, stopping after a few steps as though she wanted to turn around, but ultimately continued down the hall to the elevator.

Hermione closed the door.

* * *

Friday came unnaturally fast. If Hermione wasn’t so confident in her occlumency she would have wondered if her mind had been meddled with. That morning Hermione flipped through the Daily Prophet halfheartedly. There wasn’t anything unusual in it: complaints about Ministry ineptitude, a report on the Cannon’s record breaking loss margin (crushing the previous record, their own, by an impressive 500 points), and an exposé on Goblins “stealing” family heirlooms after the original purchaser died. She passed by the articles with disinterest, giving up without a second attempt in favor of pouring a cup of tea.

Soon, Fleur and she performed their usual ritual which found them seated at their desks at precisely 8:03.

Without the aid of the other Unspeakables, their progress was slow moving. On Tuesday, they had divided their work into sections of varying priorities. Hermione was pleased, if not surprised, that Fleur hardly argued with her on the prioritization, inserting the occasional recommendation, but otherwise staying in silent agreement.

They decided to first review all the work of the Unspeakables. It was a massive undertaking as the workers, under Hermione’s own direction, had taken to transcribing detailed notes. The daily reports had been helpful while they were acting more as management, but now that they themselves were the investigators, they needed a level of detail that they previously had not had. 

Hermione’s brash side was itching to get back to searching for the wards. Her more methodical and logical side argued that knowing the full picture would be far more efficient than blindly trying to find magical traces.

She let her logical side win, as it often did, and sat somewhat unhappily at her desk. They were now reviewing the runes engraved on the two known pillars. Oh, excitement. The trouble was a distinct lack of knowledge on the designs of the runes. They certainly weren’t any Hermione had seen before. She admitted several looked similar to the Native American runes she had examined years ago, but after reviewing her own research from that particular site, she could not say with any shred of confidence that they had a significant relation. So the two found themselves attempting to ascertain the meaning of runes whose designs they had never heard nor read of.

Hermione was looking through a tome on traditional Chilean rune patterns when Fleur spoke up.

“What are you doing this weekend?”

“I haven’t decided. Molly wants me to visit the Burrow but I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

Fleur’s face looked slightly pained as she said, “She can be… a bit overbearing.”

Hermione gave a hum of agreement. “What about you?”

Fleur shrugged. “Staying ‘ere.”

“Would you want to grab a drink or something? I noticed a few muggle pubs near us. It could be fun. I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. Just thought it might be fun?”

She grimaced at her unintentional ramble. Fleur, to her credit, barely showed the amusement she felt at the other witches struggle.

“I’d love to. Saturday night work?”

“Yes, yes I think so.”

* * *

Hermione had sent a brief, but sincere, apology letter to the Burrow yet again explaining away her absence. She felt she had a decent excuse this time. Surely getting your entire task force cut in one fell swoop was a worthy enough reason to miss out on a casual get together?

She had planned to spend Saturday morning and afternoon lazing around, perhaps working on the case at the café down the street, or reorganizing her apartment, or better yet, finishing her book. She was just taking her first sip of breakfast tea while contemplating her next step when the fireplace blazed green. She felt her heart jump at the sudden movement, it pounded against her chest as though straining to break through, her hand reached for her holstered wand… which was still in the bathroom where she had unthinkingly left it. Before she could even think the curse words necessary to describe her feeling of failure, a man stumbled through the flames.

Harry Potter stood in her living room attempting to regain his balance.

“Damn floo. Always a bother. Hermione!”

Hermione tried to will her heart down to a manageable tempo, with limited success. She managed a “Harry?”, which she was very proud of, if she did say so herself.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I called ahead, didn’t you hear?”

“No, I was making tea.” She lifted her newly poured cup in display.

“Ah, well sorry about that then.” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, looking every bit the Harry that Hermione remembered from school. Her heart slowed a bit more.

“It’s alright. Just wait for a response next time? What are you doing here anyway?”

“I wanted to check on you. Well not check on you so much as wanted to spend time with you. I missed you, you know?”

“I missed you too. I know I haven’t been around since I got back, I just-“

“I get it. It’s a lot for me too. Ginny and the kids help, but sometimes it just gets overwhelming being there.”

She gave him a strained smile. “Tea?”

“All right. If you haven’t lost your touch being a Yank and all.”

“As if I would ever turn my back on proper tea conventions. Did you know they drink their tea iced in the States? Mental.”

“Another point for the British then.”

They sat on Hermione’s lumpy couch and discussed absolutely nothing of importance until their mugs were empty and abandoned on the coffee table. Harry jumped at Hermione’s offer to wander around the city in such a way that was almost painfully reminiscent of when he would agree to a walk around the Hogwarts grounds in lieu of studying all those years ago. They shortly found themselves weaving through muggle tourists in the middle of Grassmarket.

They walked up to a small green at the foot of the castle. There were several other groups settled on the grass, some with small radios, others with picnics, but all with a sense of calm and innocence that Hermione longed for. Harry motioned to an open spot. He turned his back to the crowd, muttered something into his hand, and turned back around clutching a small blanket that he quickly laid down on the ground.

“Harry James Potter. A true gentleman. Ginny must be spoiled.”

Harry, for all his accolades and positive attributes, was never particularly adept at accepting compliments. It seemed time hadn’t improved this shortfall, evidenced by the reddening of his ears and the awkward chuckle that escaped his lips.

“Flattery will get you no where. I want,” He looked directly at her now, as if trying to determine what her response would be before asking, “I want to know about your life. In America. It doesn’t have to be now, but I want to know you’ve been ok.”

Hermione couldn’t find fault in his desire. If the tables were turned and it were _him_ that had run off with a hasty goodbye slung over his figurative shoulder, she would want to know that he had at least found some of whatever it was he was looking for.

“I was ok. Am ok, I mean. It was lovely, really. I know that might not be what you wanted to hear, me finding solace somewhere without everyone here, but it’s the truth.”

“I don’t care where you found, or find it. As long as you’re happy, so am I.” He said earnestly, eagerly. “After what you went through… well I’m just glad I still get to have this conversation at all. I thought,” He choked, his eyes filled with stubborn tears that refused to fall, “I thought you might have been gone. Forever.”

Hermione’s eyes widened at his admittance. “Oh, Harry I never meant for you to think that! I was ok, really. I was struggling harder than any time in my life, but I _never_ would have left you all.”

“Did you think it ever?”

Did she? Did she seriously consider it? There were times that she felt it would be easier for everyone if she just disappeared. The rest of the world would keep moving, of this she was sure. She wasn’t so egotistical to think otherwise. Every time she was at a low, a place so deep-seeded in pain and self-hatred that she could feel the thought emerging, she would picture her family’s faces: Harry, Ron, Ginny, the rest of the Weasleys, even Pavarti sometimes. Eventually, new faces appeared as well: Jack, Anne, Avery, and for a time, Skyler. Their faces would dance behind her eyes, reminding her of the pain she would cause them, and just like that the thoughts would disperse. Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest way of dealing with it, but it worked for her. Their faces, a mantra of sorts, acted as a shield from the darkest parts of herself, fending it off like a patronus does a dementor, stopping them from forming into full fledged plans.

“If it weren’t for you all, I think I might have.”

They sat in silence. Harry reached over slowly to grab her hand, giving her time to move away if she needed. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they both watched the muggles bustle from store to store.

It was some time later when their stomachs made their discomfort known. Harry stood up first, helping Hermione up with his still held hand.

“I love you, you know.” Harry said softly, almost too quietly for her to hear.

Hermione gave him a sad smile and embraced him. Her head tucked into collarbone as his hands gripped her back.

“I love you too.”

They pulled apart and made their way back into the marketplace. The blanket Harry had conjured was banished away along with the weight of their conversation.

Hermione reached for the door of the sandwich shop, turning her head as she did so to snark something back to Harry, when she noticed the shocked expression on his face as he stared directly in front of him. Her own turned to one of confusion, before she followed his gaze.

Who but Fleur Delacour stood in the stairway giving Harry a genuine, albeit somewhat awkward, smile.

“Fleur!”

  
“‘Arry!” She responded, matching his tone exactly.

“What are you doing here?”

She titled her head. “I am working on the Edinburgh case, surely you know that?”

“Yes, right. I thought everyone had been taken off? Except ‘mione.”

“Non, everyone except ‘mione and myself.”

Hermione hadn’t expected Fleur to use the nickname. She suspected its use had something to do with the unexpected warmth that blossomed beneath her chest.

“I can’t say I’m surprised they thought you two could handle it. The two smartest witches I know.” He had shed whatever awkwardness had been hanging between him and Fleur. Hermione wasn’t sure why it existed in the first place, but ultimately chalked it up to a lingering boyhood crush.

“And you’re still my favorite English wizard.”

“I remember a time I was your favorite English person, full stop.”

“Well you’ve been dethroned.” Fleur’s eyes darted to Hermione, who didn’t notice as she was currently watching two men fail to lift a sofa next door. Harry, fortunately or unfortunately, was known for his observational skills in the Aurors, and most certainly _did_ notice. It was a very good thing for Hermione that he had learned the art of subtlety since last she saw him, and so did not make further mention of Fleur’s comment beyond a slight lift of his eyebrows.

“I’m wounded. We should catch up, grab a drink sometime?”

“That would be lovely.” She said with a slight smile before trying to get Hermione’s attention. “‘Ermine?”

“Sorry, what?” She looked back at the pair. One of the men had dropped his side of the couch on his foot, and was now cursing with a fervor that would have made Mundungus Fletcher blush.

“I’ll see you at 7?”

“Yes! I can pick you up this time, switch it up?”

“I’ll be waiting at the door at 6:45.” She winked. Honest to God, winked. Merlin, Hermione didn’t know anyone actually _did_ that. “‘Arry it was nice to see you.” She swooped in to plant a kiss on each of his cheeks.

“You too.”

When they were safely inside the shop and Fleur was out of sight, Harry turned to Hermione.

“ _What_ was that?”

“What was what?”

He gestured vaguely with his hand. “ _That_. All of that.”

“The movers?”

“Fleur! Don’t tell me there’s nothing odd there.” They approached the ordering counter. Harry tried to keep his voice down, but only accomplished turning it into a hiss.

“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about. Cheese toastie, Harry? I think I’ll go for a tuna melt.” She said with a nod to the worker.

“Yeah, cheese is fine.” He spoke quickly without looking away from her.

“And two Irn-Bru’s, if you please.”

She paid as she ignored Harry’s stare. Grabbing the plastic card with the number 23 on its face, she walked them to a table in the corner.

“You. Fleur. Something.”

“Really Harry, I don’t think you’d appreciate if little James spoke in incomplete sentences like that would you? How are the kids by the way?”

“Oh, they’re great.” His expression softened at the thought of his family. “Albus has been trying to follow James around even more than normal. Can’t keep up though, what with the size of the head on his shoulders. Keeps losing his balance and pitching forward.”

Hermione gave a relaxed laugh.

“That’s brilliant. I’ll have to visit soon. Get to know them.”

“That’d be great. Wait, don’t change the subject! Why are you meeting Fleur?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We’re friends, Harry. That’s what friends do. They meet. Like we are, right now.”

“I dunno Hermione I don’t wink at you like that.”

“She’s French. It’s a cultural thing.”

“If you say so.”

They were interrupted by a waitress dropping off their sandwiches and drinks.

“You know, I never got to try one of these when we were in school.” She held up the soda and gave it an experimental sniff. “They’re supposed to be a local favorite. Apparently Scotland is one of the only countries in the world whose number one soda isn’t Coca Cola.”

She took a sip. Her face immediately scrunched up in disgust.

“Oh Merlin, that’s _awful._ Try it.”

Harry took a tentative sip, but found that he enjoyed it. “I like it!”

“It tastes exactly like liquid bubble gum. How can you stomach it?” She said through a smile.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe because I didn’t grow up with dentists?”

Her smile faltered a bit. She nudged her barely touched bottle towards him. “That must be it. You can have it then, maybe James or Albus will like it.”

Harry gave the bottle a thoughtful look. “Or Ginny. She’s been having awful cravings later. Maybe this will hit the spot.”

They ate in appreciative silence of the sandwiches, not wanting to waste time talking when they could be eating. By the time they were done Hermione felt slightly ill, but extremely content.

“I better be getting back. Kids are with Molly and she’ll try to take them for the night if we’re not careful.”

“Let’s head back to my apartment then.”

They walked back to her apartment with a bit more purpose than when they had left. Hermione opened the door, and Harry walked directly to the fireplace. He hovered in front of it.

“Be careful will you? I know Ron talked to you a bit, but there’s been unrest around the country.Constant vigilance and all that.”

“Sir yes sir, Professor Mooney, sir.” She said as she bowed at the waist.

“I’m serious, Hermione. I hope it’s nothing, but if it’s not, just be careful.”

“I promise. Besides, I have the other smartest witch you know to protect me.”

“You’re not off the hook on that one, by the way.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. A moment after, he added, “You should ask her about what happened between her and Bill. If you haven’t already.”

“They got divorced right?”

He nodded. “But it’s not the whole story, and it’s not my place to explain.”

She scrunched her brow in confusion but promised to ask about it. “You be careful too Harry.”

Harry scoffed. “Me? When have I ever not been careful? It’s like you don’t even know me.”

He disappeared with an ill-contained smile and a flash of green flame.

* * *

Alexander Hendersen was having a very bad day. A very, very bad day. Everything that could go wrong, had. But dwelling on the events that led him to where he was now would do him no good, so instead he ran. Quickly. Through the streets of London he went without so much as a “sorry” as he harshly bumped into people, knocking several unfortunate souls down. Onlookers cried out to him, but made no move to stop him, more than a little disconcerted by his attire and his aggression. To the pedestrians, he looked straight out of a comic con, with long black robes whipping behind him as he ran clutching a stick and donning a pointed hat. If he heard the whispers of madman he certainly did not show it. Several cussed the failing rehabilitation centers and the drug industry, but Alexander Hendersen paid them no mind. No, he had far more important things to do than worry about what insignificant beings thought of him. He had a task to complete. A goal. A purpose.

And so, he ran. He ducked into a side alley before a pair of constables could corner him and slowed to a brisk walk as he attempted to control his breathing into a more manageable state. When he reached the end of the alley, he reached up with his wand and tapped a brick. He whispered something quietly to the wall, and it slowly melted away, revealing a stairwell that led down into the darkness.

He gave a quick look around and entered. Torches on either side of the stairwell lit up as he passed, each time giving him just enough light before they extinguished themselves to last until he reached the next set. He walked down for a few minutes. By the time he reached the bottom, his breath had mercifully returned. The bottom of the stairwell opened to a similarly dark walkway, the end of which he could not see. He walked for several more minutes before stopping abruptly and looking upwards.

The ceiling looked to be entirely insignificant. The section that Alexander looked at was no different than the rest of the ceiling: it looked like rough stone. Apparently to him, it was significant enough to stop walking and pull out a small bag from inside his robes.

Gingerly, he removed a device that had no business fitting inside the much smaller bag. It beeped as it was withdrawn. He looked down at it with no small amount of trepidation. He pointed his wand at it and cast a spell. Then, without removing his eyes from the device, he quietly cast a levitation charm on the object until it brushed the ceiling. He could feel a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face as he concentrated, but he didn’t dare wipe it away. Taking a deep breath, he cancelled the spell, wand at the ready and still pointed at the device.

He allowed himself to release a breath in relief as the device stayed stuck to the ceiling. Now, he turned his focus onto the ground around him as began to cast. He stayed in the hallway for several minutes, occasionally sending worried glances to the device plastered overhead, before stopping, satisfied. He retreated several yards back the way he came. Then, with one more cursory look around, he pointed his wand one last time at the device and cast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *One of the few changes I made to canon pre-epilogue. In this story, Hermione was held at Malfoy Manor for 4 days. Dobby left with Ron, Harry, and the others and brought them to Shell Cottage instead of saving her because it was too risky. Because they immediately left, the DE were not aware it was a house elf that saved the prisoners and didn't take additional pre-cautions. They come back for her and save her when she's finally left alone in the dungeon. I'll be going a bit more in-depth about this later, but wanted you guys to have a bit of background.
> 
> \--  
> I love Harry. Hermione and his friendship is *chef's kiss*. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Irn-bru is something that I never understood. It seems like only people that grew up in Scotland like it. Apparently they tried to reduce the amount of sugar in it (because it's absurd) but the scotts protested it and started stockpiling the original, causing them to back off and keep it the same. Personally, I find it awful. 0/10 would not recommend. 
> 
> \--
> 
> A new player arises? Hmm...


	13. And the tide rises, the tide falls [2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Fleur have a heart to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it been three weeks? I'm pretty sure August was a black hole.
> 
> Thanks to my main squeeze rice_and_beans for her ~amazing~ mind and help. The real MVP.

Hermione was not freaking out. She was 29 years old damn it! She wasn’t about to be _worried_ for a not-a-date-but-maybe-a-date-date. For Merlin’s sake she was a war hero. People practically worshipped the ground she walked on. So no, if anyone asked, Hermione was not _worried._ And certainly not scared. She was, after all, the Gryffindor princess, and bravery clung to her in excess. 

One could, however, be excused for thinking otherwise, as Hermione Granger stood wringing her hands out in front of her as she stared into her half empty closet. The rest of her clothes laid strewn across the floor in undignified heaps. She tapped her foot. Surely she had something appropriate. 

It was no small task, picking out an outfit, when Hermione knew she would be compared to Fleur; a woman who could exude grace and style in sweatpants and a stained oversized tee. Meanwhile Hermione exuded plainness and mediocrity. What would be considered too casual? She cast another look at the discarded clothing, as if hoping that something would appear out of thin air. Odder things have happened. Alas, there were no sudden conjurations. She would have to make do.

There was a knock on the door. Hermione finished pulling the cream colored sweater over her head and dashed to the bathroom to hurriedly apply a bit of mascara.

“Just a minute!” She called out.

She ran to the door, pausing for a second to catch her breath and smooth down her hair one last time, and opened it.

Fleur was leaning casually against the doorframe. She wasn’t wearing anything that could be considered particularly impressive on its own; a jean jacket, a white peasant shirt, and a pair of ripped jeans that hung low on her hips, but on her they looked couture.

Her hands were shoved into her jacket pockets. She pulled them away from her body in a questioning manner as she asked, “Are you ready?”

“What? Oh, yes let's go.”

Fleur just stood there with her eyebrows raised.

“Do you want to go or not?” Hermione said in a huff.

“You might want to put on some shoes, mon amie.”

Hermione looked down to see her stocked feet and a noticeable absence of footwear. 

“Right. Well, come in I’ll just be a second.”

She disappeared into her room for a minute, returning with a pair of white converse that she had hastily cast a scourgify on in a mildly successful attempt to remove some of the grime that had built up over the years. 

“Ready!”

Fleur led them to a lively pub around the corner from their building. They kept their heads down as they made their way to an empty table in the back of the room. Fleur offered to buy the first round, and at Hermione’s agreement, shot off to grab them, returning a few minutes later carrying a glass of wine and a beer.

“So what do you do for fun when you’re at school?” Hermione was intent on approaching the difficult topic delicately and carefully, and was thus slightly smug at how covertly she was approaching the ex-husband topic. 

“Read mostly. We don’t have much time for much else; there’s always a student needing one thing or another.” 

“You don’t go into Hogsmeade?”

“The professors try to meet up once a month. We have a rotating schedule so there are always a few of us still at school in case anything happens.”

“Oh? Just the professors?”

Fleur gave her an odd look. “Yes.”

“Well, that seems like fun.”

“It can be, yes.”

“Right.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “Why are you acting odd?”

“I’m not acting odd.”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not!” Hermione cringed at herself. ‘Am not’? Really.

“Alright then.” 

“Alright. Good.”

They sat in an uncomfortable silence. Hermione bounced her left foot nervously as she tried to gather the nerve to ask Fleur about Bill. Damn Harry! If only he had told her instead of leading her in blind. She had no clue as to what had been the catalyst of their marriage’s collapse, and she had no desire to accidentally offend the other woman on their not-a-date-date. Hermione recalled that Harry had mentioned a mutual separation at the Weasley’s a few weeks ago, but that was not nearly enough for her to confidently ask. Not to mention, Hermione wasn’t sure how Fleur would react to _her_ asking such questions. The younger witch would be mortified if Fleur presumed that she had an attraction, even if it were true, to her. 

Up until this point, Hermione had attempted, with what she thought was admirable success, to keep her attraction from being blatant. Flirting here and there was normal! Comfortable, even. After all, she and Jack flirted quite often, but she certainly did not hold a candle for the man. It didn’t have to mean anything. Hermione was sure that Fleur had experienced enough unrequited and undesired advances. She didn’t want to follow in these boorish footsteps. No, she would keep her attraction under lock and key.

Despite this resolve, Hermione couldn’t deny that she wanted to find out more about Fleur. She chalked it up to typical knowledge-seeking-Hermione behavior. Eventually, after what felt like minutes, but was really no more than a few seconds, Hermione gathered the nerve to ask head on.

“Have you seen anyone since Bill?”

Hermione couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Fleur’s eyes as she asked, instead choosing to focus on the lewd photograph of a naked woman that was hanging in all it’s dignified glory directly behind Fleur. When Fleur didn’t respond, Hermione chanced a look at her face.

The other woman’s face, normally displaying only the most surface level of emotions, showed the whirlwind of emotions she was experiencing. Hermione wanted to say something, anything, to bring the conversation back to safer waters, but something stopped her from getting the words out, and she instead waited patiently for Fleur to gather herself.

“Non. What happened with Bill was, well it was not pleasant. I did not wish to get into anything else.” Her voice was small and quiet. Hermione had to lean forward slightly to catch the words as they drawled out of Fleur’s mouth in monotone.

“If you don’t mind me asking, and please don’t feel as though you have to dignify this with a response, but what happened? To you and Bill, I mean.”

Fleur took a drink. She held the wine in her mouth, savoring the flavor and delaying her response, before swallowing and carefully putting the glass back on the wooden table. She watched the precipitation drip down the wine glass in tracks, and rubbed the stem of the glass as she thought. 

“It wasn’t his fault.” She began. “Well, not entirely. I am no saint Hermione, I need you to understand this.” She brought her eyes up to meet the other woman as she spoke, demanding the intimacy of eye contact for what was to come. Hermione kept the shock off her face, and gave Fleur a small nod of understanding. Fleur continued. “When we started courting, I thought I had found the person I would spend the rest of my life with. He was charming, smart, and handsome. He made me laugh. He never made me feel less than. He never talked down to me. I was his equal, as he was mine.” 

She took another sip of wine, this one to sooth the sudden scratchiness of her voice. 

“During the war, we didn’t have time to focus on us. Our courtship started and ended so quickly, we had only dated for a year before we married, did you know? I think that was our mistake. We were so caught up in the excitement of the time. It didn’t seem right to discuss superfluous things like what our dreams were, or what our favorite meal was when we were on the cusp on societal collapse. How could we? Our neighbors, our friends, our family, were fighting. It seemed so,” she stopped, trying to find the word. “trivial, in comparison. And then I saw you.” 

Fleur stopped speaking, her eyes cast down on the table. Hermione tensed. She could feel her palms begin to sweat, her heartbeat begin to quicken, her throat tightening. Her jaw clenched and she dug her fingernails into the part of her skin that was exposed by the rips in her jeans. _Focus on what you see. What can you see? Five things. Just five._ She repeated to herself within the safe confines of her mind. _The photograph_. _The bald barman. The rowdy group of university students. The neon toilet sign. Fleur_. She repeated these a few times more. 

Fleur wet her lips. “I- when you came to the cottage you were so broken. I couldn’t sleep the week you were there. Every time I closed my eyes I just saw you. Broken.”

Hermione moved to sounds. _The Beatles playing over the speaker. A beer bottle getting slammed down on the table next to them. A call of cheers from the crowd. Fleur’s gulp._ Her heart was still thumping, but her hands felt less clammy, so she continued. Three smells. _Stale beer. The slight musk of sweat. Fleur’s perfume._ She repeated all of these one more time. 

Fleur began to speak in a rush, her voice more and more betraying the emotions she had been repressing. 

“Until that point, neither of us had been on the front lines. We were keeping our ears open at Gringotts, but we weren’t fighting. And there you were. Just barely 18 and fighting for your life. You had suffered through something that most of us would never wish upon our worst of enemies. And then there you were lying on my guest bed; in a room that I had cleaned the day before at my leisure with a glass of wine while you were… with her. I was the dutiful wife masquerading as a spy on the side, while you were sacrificing yourself for our futures. I felt sick with myself. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t. I tried to help you, make you comfortable, read to you, whatever I could think of. When you left, I- I was only thinking of the danger you had yet to face. And I was doing it sitting at my dining room table picking at a lavish meal.”

Fleur cleared her throat with a cough. She found herself unable to continue and ended up sitting there dumbly, her mouth opening and closing.

Hermione’s heart had slowed, her throat relaxed, and chest no longer felt the uncomfortable pressure it had been under minutes prior. She took a deep breath. Then another. She released her grip on her knee and switched to a lightly tapping on it with her index finger instead. 

She spoke in a whisper. “You did help. I don’t blame you, or think anything less of you. Mine was a role that needed to be played.”

“It wasn’t a role you should have been cast in. You were so young.”

“We all were. The adults, they failed us. None of us should have been involved. Looking back, I can’t fathom how they justified our participation.”

“It wasn’t right.” Fleur said as she shook her head in agreement.

Hermione waited for Fleur to continue with measured breaths. She felt in control. It was an invigorating feeling to talk about _the event_ and not break down, even if it was discussed in such a tangential way. She absentmindedly rubbed her left forearm with her thumb. It wasn’t hurting. 

“When the war ended we were left to pick up the pieces. There were funerals to organize and to attend, buildings to repair, people to heal. Bill was dealing with the aftermath of his attack. We were busy. And because we were busy we didn’t have to focus on what wasn’t working. But then finally everything settled and suddenly it was just us. I don’t remember how it happened; one day we were fine, the next we were hardly talking to each other. We got to the point where we would leave the room if the other came in. Bill he- he was insecure after the attack. He tried to put on a brave face for his family, but it was affecting him. When we went out, he started to get more and more jealous of the attention I would get. We never talked about it. We didn’t know how.”

“He was still working at Gringotts when I started consulting. I thought it would be good for us to have a separation, living and working together was a lot of, well, togetherness. “

“So I left. My first assignment was for the Portuguese ministry. It was supposed to be a two week trip, but I ended up stretching it to a month. I wasn’t expecting it to be so freeing. I was living by myself in a tiny apartment the ministry had set up, and I had never felt so happy. But the guilt lay heavy. How could I feel like that without my husband? Without the man who was supposed to be the love of my life? It was selfish, but I couldn’t go home. I went on another assignment immediately. I was away from England for four months straight. I didn’t once miss Bill.”

She let out a sigh. “He didn’t miss me either. A new person, a girl fresh out of Hogwarts, had taken my place at Gringotts. He was her mentor. She was enamored with him almost immediately, constantly bringing him lunch, asking for help, inviting him for a drink after work, and so on and so forth. They got close. When I came home, I found their letters. Months of them that started almost from the minute I left. I confronted him about it one night. He told me nothing was going on, that they were just friends and that he didn’t see her like that. I didn’t believe him. But I also didn’t want to face the alternative- that he was cheating on me and I was his second choice. So I ignored it, and went on another assignment. One that lasted six months.”

She looked at Hermione solemnly. “I want, need, you to understand that I was miserable. I had just learned that my husband had been unfaithful and despite my best efforts to pretend otherwise, I knew that my marriage wasn’t going last long. I was in Australia and working alongside a woman who was particularly affected by my thrall. At this point I didn’t have the control of it that I do now, and certain people were influenced like you saw during the tournament, you remember how Ron acted?”

Hermione nodded, Ron’s dumbfounded expression still fresh in her memories. 

“This woman was similar, but she was able to hold a conversation. She became rather- attached, shall we say- to me. Similar to Bill’s ‘coworker,’ this woman, Jane, sent letters. Many of them. I’m not entirely sure why I allowed it. It wasn’t right. I should never have allowed her to get as comfortable with me as she did, but I couldn’t help loving how it made me feel. Desired. Confident. Attractive. Bill and I hadn’t fucked in months, and I wanted to. I wanted to feel that connection with someone, anyone. She was attractive and… willing. About a month before I went back to England I agreed to go on a date with her. It was a stupid, reckless, idiotic thing to do, but I so desperately wanted to feel wanted and desired. I couldn’t resist.” 

She stopped, trying to gauge Hermione’s reaction to the influx of personal information, but wasn’t able to glean a thing from the British woman’s face. When she started to talk again she held Hermione’s gaze, intent as she was to portray the severity of her failure. Hermione looked right back, mirroring the intensity of Fleur’s stare.

“I went on the date with her, expecting to fuck at the end of it, but not even ten minutes into the date I panicked and left. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just betray Bill like that, even if he betrayed me.” 

Hermione reached out silently to hold Fleur’s hand. The other woman’s hand was clammy: betraying the discomfort and anxiety she felt for the conversation. She gave it a soft squeeze of encouragement and brushed her thumb across the back, unwilling to interrupt Fleur’s confession, but wanting to provide some modicum of comfort. She was rewarded for her efforts with the smallest hint of a smile, albeit one laced with sadness.

“I finished the assignment as soon as I could, I think I hardly slept for the rest of the month. As soon as I got home I told Bill. He was furious for all of five minutes, and then all of a sudden he was eerily calm. He told me he wanted to get a divorce. I couldn’t bring myself to argue with him, or to fight for our relationship when really it had been dead for a long time. I packed my things that night and went to stay with my family in France. I found out after we had signed the papers that he had been cheating on me with that woman the entirety of the time I was away, and not just exchanging letters. I had suspected it, of course, but it was one thing to suspect and quite another to hear confirmation.”

“I had no idea, Fleur.”

“Few did. We decided to keep it between us. It isn’t something either of us are proud of. Harry is one of the only people in both of our lives that know.”

“I didn’t realize you two were close.”

Fleur gave a small smile. “We understand one another. Harry can sympathize with the intrinsic unpleasantness from having something people want. You are lucky to count him as a friend”

“He is something special. I’ve missed him.”

Fleur looked as though she wanted to ask, but couldn’t bring herself to do so, as the emotional nature of the conversation had begun to make its effects known, and her entire being felt so dramatically _tired._

Hermione added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Fleur shook her head. “I wasn’t sad that it was over. It was for the best. But I was sad, and hurt, both about how it ended, and how I behaved.”

They had finished their drinks already, and so were free to get up and leave the small table behind. Try as they might, they weren’t able to shake the morose mood the conversation had put them in, and it adhered to them with great perseverance and determination, providing a stark contrast to the aura of lightheartedness provided by those around them. They exited the pub, their heads bowed just as they had been when they entered. Their mood seemed to dissuade any strangers from talking to them, and for that, Hermione was grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! On the plus side, the next chapter is almost done, so it shouldn't be a long wait. 
> 
> Fleurmione week is coming up on the 3rd! Much excite.


	14. When the summer fields are mown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Fleur find out more about wards, and plan a sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're ready for... wait for it... even more bad google docs drawings!!

As it turns out, working alone with Fleur was just as difficult, and just as pleasant, as Hermione thought it would be. There was no denying the other witch was clever. 

Unfortunately, despite the cleverness they had in abundance between the two of them, there was also no denying that being left to their own devices with a case they could make neither heads nor tails of, was a daunting and frustrating task. The weeks went by in a haze of futile research, wine nights, and dead ends. By early August they had only found 2 more pillars. 

Both of their lives had been consumed by the project. Hermione wondered why Fleur spent so much time in Edinburgh when she still had her family waiting for her in France, but selfishly did not elect to ask, lest she remind the other woman, and cause her to leave more often. 

They had sequestered themselves in the city, rarely venturing out into the wizarding world, British or otherwise. Hermione had resigned herself to brief floo calls with the Treehouse, and occasional Skype sessions with her muggle friends across the pond. 

July 31st had been a particularly difficult day. Despite how much Harry hated attention, he had certain commitments that required him to be in the public eye; one such obligation forced him to host a large, public birthday celebration. He had extended an invitation to Hermione, knowing all the while that there was no chance she would actually accept it. He was right. Hermione had instead spent the day with Fleur watching old reruns of bad soaps. 

The invitation to a seperate, intimate birthday party for Harry was, however, pinned to the refrigerator. She was resolved to attend this one. It was in just 3 days. Hermione was apprehensive at the thought. It wasn’t set to be a big gathering, but the Weasley clan alone would push the numbers to uncomfortable levels. Still, it was something that she felt obliged to do, and she was determined to rise to the occasion. As the date approached, she increasingly found herself thinking about it.

Hermione shook herself from these thoughts- they had no place at work. She sat now at her desk in the cave, this day no different than the ones prior. She was pouring over the Unspeakables’ reports for the umpteenth time, when a thought occurred to her.

“Hey Fleur?”

“Oui?”

“I was thinking, maybe it’s worth a trip to the states to look into the Native American connection.”

“I thought you said that was a coincidence?”

“I’m not sure. We’ve tried everything else, what do we have to lose?”

Fleur hummed her approval. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yeah, I worked with this woman, Kat, on a site a few years back. If anyone would be able to spot a connection it’d be her.”

Fleur sat up a little straighter, an excited glint in her eye. “Where is she?”

“In Newfoundland.” Hermione was looking at Fleur nervously. When Fleur narrowed her eyes, Hermione added, “I was thinking of stopping at my house. In Maine. With you. I mean, I was hoping you’d stop by. We could stay the night?”

“Are you asking me to sleepover?” Fleur said with a smirk, amused at Hermione’s floundering.

“Not like that! I just thought it would be nice to not have to do two international portkeys in a day, they can be quite unpleasant you know.”

“Not like what?” Fleur said with an innocent expression.

“You know what you meant!” Hermione was unwilling to meet Fleur’s eyes, instead choosing to look at Fleur’s shoulder with a flushed face.

Fleur took pity on her. “That would be great. When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow? I just want to organize our ideas to make it easier for Kat.”

Fleur nodded. “Do you want me to set up the portkey?”

“Would you?”

“But of course. For you, I’ll do anything.” She said in a teasing tone.

“Shut up Fleur.” Hermione said through a blush.

* * *

The next day they met earlier than usual, eager to avoid the commuting wave of ministry workers. They side-along apparated to the almost empty Atrium. Neither of them were keen to linger long enough to be noticed, so they hurried past security and headed straight to the Department of Magical Transportation. Right as they entered the department, Hermione collided with a tall, wry, middle aged man who looked strangely familiar to Hermione, although she was unable to pinpoint exactly where she knew him from. The man hardly glanced in their direction as he mumbled an apology and continued onward. Hermione offered similar condolences, and dragged Fleur to the Americas area.

Twenty minutes later they landed in a completely empty Portland office. It was still the middle of the night when they arrived, and they could hear the party goers lingering in the streets long after the bars had closed for the night. It was slightly disorienting. Fleur looked curiously out the window while Hermione tried to quell the nausea from the portkey.

When she had adequately calmed her stomach, she offered her right arm out for Fleur to grab, switching her wand to her left to accommodate the French witch. With a deep breath, they disapparated to the front of Hermione’s cottage.

The weeds were threatening to overrun the small garden that lined the front of Hermione’s house, but otherwise the cottage remained untouched from when she left it. The cool night air welcomed them, the gentle breeze discouraged lingering and nudged them towards the door. Fleur’s arm was still wrapped around Hermione’s bicep as Hermione turned to her. 

“Are you ok? Woozy from the apparition?”

“Pardon? Oh, yes.” She removed her grasp on Hermione’s arm. 

“Well, this is it.” Hermione said with no small amount of awkwardness as she opened the door and beckoned for Fleur to enter. “It’s not much.” She added.

Hermione was not one to be self-conscious about her house. She liked it. She didn’t need others to. It was therefore a surprise to her when she found herself anxious to hear Fleur’s opinion of the small house. Surely it wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to what Fleur was used to. Although, Hermione realized with a shock, she didn’t really know what Fleur was used to. They had never discussed each other’s childhood homes. She resolved to ask. 

A smile almost immediately overcame Fleur’s face as she stepped inside. For Fleur, it was almost exactly what she had imagined the other woman’s home to look like. She turned to Hermione and said through a smile, “It is magnifique.”

“Well that might be a bit strong.” Hermione scratched the back of her head in a nervous tick. “I do like it though. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be wonderful.”

Fleur continued to poke around as Hermione busied herself with the tea. She was drawn to the fireplace mantle, where several photographs were framed. She looked fondly at a picture, a muggle one as the people were not moving, of Hermione with three other people on a boat, their faces close together as they laughed. The next photograph was of Hermione and another woman. They were looking intently in one another’s eyes. Fleur thought it looked intimate. 

“Who is this?” Fleur called out to Hermione, holding up the frame. 

“Oh, that’s Skyler.”

“And who is Skyler?”

“She’s a friend.”

“She doesn’t look like a friend.”

Hermione looked at Fleur and tilted her head. “We dated.”

“Dated?” Fleur put emphasis on the ‘ed’. 

“Yes, we broke up a couple years ago, but we’re still close.”

Fleur hummed in response, and placed the picture back down on the mantle.

Hermione walked over and handed Fleur her tea. 

“I was thinking we could do a bit of work before it’s time to head over?”

“Bon.”

They pulled out their research and sat down across from one another at the dining table. After an hour, Hermione stood up with a start and ran to the other room as Fleur watched on confused.

“Where are you going?” Fleur called out after her.

“One second!”

Hermione returned, a triumphant expression on her face, holding a large, old looking book. 

Fleur raised an eyebrow in question. 

“I forgot I had this. In the 1700s Massachusetts wizards recorded their conversations with their Native American counterparts. There’s a section on warding, somewhere. Maybe it will have something!”

Fleur gave her a fond smile. “Two potential leads in one day? Maybe the Ministry was right, we clearly don’t need anyone else.”

Hermione snorted. “Don’t jinx it. It’ll probably be nothing, but maybe…” She drifted off as she flicked through the book. A second later a chime sounded from the kitchen, causing Hermione to startle out of her seat and Fleur to reach out to prevent her falling to the ground. 

“Morgana! Sorry.” She mumbled as she clumsily collected herself. “That would be my alarm, I thought I had remembered to turn it off before leaving.” 

Once she was safely back in her chair, she glanced outside to see the sky beginning to lighten. 

“Fleur, do you want to see something fantastic?”

“How could I say no to fantastic?” 

Hermione gave her a wide grin that caused the corner of her eyes to crinkle. Fleur thought it was perhaps the most unguarded she had seen the other witch. 

Hermione stood, offering a hand to Fleur, banished their empty mugs to the sink, and grabbed a blanket from underneath the bench by the door. 

“Come on then.”

They headed outside. Fleur was grateful for her last minute decision to bring her jean jacket, as she now burrowed deeper into it, trying to hide as much as possible from the ambient air as she looked down at her feet. The air hadn’t warmed up much since they had apparated, and what little warmth had been gained was lost by the cool breeze blowing off the ocean. She shivered. Almost immediately she felt a warmth surround her shoulders. Hermione had draped the blanket over Fleur’s shoulders without so much as a look in her direction, her gaze still firmly set on the horizon they were addling towards. 

“Merci.” Fleur said quietly.

They reached the rocky coast. The sky was a pale blue that managed to illuminate their weary faces as they sat with their backs against the rocks. Fleur had shrugged the blanket from around her shoulders and laid it out across their laps. Their legs touched slightly, as both had unconsciously chosen to sit down near the other. Hermione hardly realized she was leaning towards Fleur until she felt their shoulders connect. Fleur, to her credit, said nothing of the contact, instead gently pushing back against the younger witch. 

They sat in silence. The only sound that reached their ears was the calm ocean lazily slapping against the rocks in tired motions. The briny air hung heavy on their clothes: the mist of the morning still yet to dissolve. Fleur snuck a glance at Hermione.

The British witch was looking intently out at the horizon as if searching for something or someone. Her head was tilted towards Fleur's shoulder, Fleur wondered if the other witch contemplated resting it against her shoulder. Hermione’s hair, for once unhindered by a tie, extended outwards without clear direction. Fleur clasped her hands together underneath the blanket to avoid reaching out and smoothing it down. 

To Fleur, the last few weeks felt as though she and Hermione were standing on a precipice. There were several times that Fleur had found herself fixated on Hermione’s lips as the other witch ranted about one thing or another. In those moments, it wasn’t difficult to imagine leaning across the small chasm, but something always stopped her. When they began working together Fleur had become acutely aware of the baggage Hermione carried constantly on her shoulders, how heavily that weight pressed on her, and how hesitant the Brit was to confide in others. 

She was still looking at the British woman when Hermione straightened and pointed to the horizon, an excited glint in her eye. 

“That’s my friend Jack! There, in that boat, can you see?”

Fleur allowed herself another moment to linger on the excited face of the other woman before redirecting it to follow Hermione’s gesture. Sure enough, a boat was traveling across the sea. Hermione waved. Fleur was certain whoever, Jack was it?, that was on the boat would not be able to see the small witch pressed against the rocks. She was proven wrong when a horn sounded across the water. 

“He has a few pots out here, those red buoys are his.”

Fleur nodded. She wasn’t quite following, but decided against making Hermione explain. 

The sun began to peak up over the horizon, warming the sky with tones of orange and yellow and banishing the cool colorings the night had left behind. 

They sat enjoying the view and the warmth the sun brought. When the reds faded from the sky and their eyes strained against the brightness of the day, they stood and walked silently back to the cottage. 

Hermione was the first to break the silence. “We can leave soon, Kat usually wakes with the sun.”

They puttered around the kitchen as Hermione made them a light breakfast of oatmeal and fruit that she had brought along for the trip. They exchanged stories of their friends. Hermione tried to explain Jack and all of his many eccentricities, while Fleur regaled tales of her time spent serving as the resident prankster during her early years at Beauxbatons. 

It had hardly seemed like much time had passed at all when the time finally came to go. Fleur held onto the crook of Hermione’s arm again as they disapparated away. 

Fleur had to blink several times when they landed: it was much brighter here than at the cottage. They were standing outside a bizarre looking building that looked as though someone had thrown together several independent houses. There was no cohesive style to connect the structures, rather each one was distinctly its own, and ended abruptly when it met the next section. It was only one story, but what it lacked in height it made up for in width: sprawling outward in distinctive wings. To Fleur, it was reminiscent of the Burrow. 

A short, late middle-aged woman came bursting out of the house, almost as wide as she was tall, and seemingly bursting at the seams with an unbridled enthusiasm that Fleur could only hope to one day exude. She wore patchy robes, which despite their eccentric appearance, looked to be of a high quality. It was as though the woman had sewn together several nice garments to achieve the look she was currently sporting, which Fleur would find out later, is precisely what she had done. Her short dark hair was covered with a bandana that was tied off on the side of her head, right above the ear. She was without a doubt, the strangest person Fleur had ever seen, surpassing in oddity even the Lovegood girl Bill’s family had insisted on inviting to their wedding. 

The woman, Kat, welcomed the witches with a wide grin and a firm hug that Hermione managed to subvert by turning to the side for a one armed hug instead. 

“Hermione! It’s wonderful to see you. I saw a pufferpin the other day, can you believe it? I could use some help clearing out the plidders from the garden if you have a moment, or an hour, maybe even a year. No, that won’t do I suppose. You’re busy aren’t you my dear!” 

She spoke in a rush; Fleur was quite impressed with her ability to speak seemingly without any breath at all. Perhaps it was magic. The woman had a deep, booming voice with an American accent. Before Hermione could so much as open her mouth to respond, Kat had turned to Fleur and without hesitation opened her arms in welcome. Fleur looked at Hermione, alarmed. Hermione looked right back, amused. She stepped into the hug, drawing on her childhood lessons of propriety to guide her in this most unusual of greetings. 

“And you! Oh you are a pretty one aren’t you? Your kind have the most fascinating of beliefs! Hermione didn’t tell me about you, or I’d have remembered. Is that a junderwood wand you have there? No that wouldn’t make sense, they’ve been extinct for several centuries. Unless you’re from the past?” 

She narrowed her eyes at Fleur, as if trying to see evidence of Fleur’s age in her expression. 

“No, certainly not the past. Although, I suppose we are all in the past, are we not? The present is such a silly concept really. Nothing is _truly_ in the present is it? Live in the present. What a silly saying! Why are you two just standing there? Didn’t you want to talk?”

Kat, who had begun to walk back towards the house, turned around to face the two witches rooted in place and looked at them expectantly.

The two exchanged a look, Hermione’s of sheer amusement, Fleur’s of sheer confusion. The former giggled and grabbed Fleur’s hand to pull her towards the now marching witch. 

“You’ve two had tea I gather? We can talk in the parlor.” The woman, surprisingly quick for her size, called out over her shoulder as she opened the door. 

The inside of the- home?- was as Fleur expected. That is to say, it held the unexpected. Large plants, muggle and magical alike, hung down from the ceiling; Fleur was certain she spotted devils snare in the corner and resolved to avoid the area at all costs. The interior of the home met the lofty expectations of eccentricity introduced by the exterior with undeniable ease. The walls, ceiling, and floor were painted with a pink so bright Fleur had to blink several times to adjust. The door opened directly into the living room. Despite the outside appearing rectangular, the living room was a near perfect circle, causing it to look like a giant gum-ball. The furniture was similarly bright, but with varying colors that made it abundantly clear a color palate was never considered. Kat had disappeared to the kitchen, which, for some reason, was on a loft to the right of the front door, and accessible only by a precarious looking ladder. In the far end of the room was a tent. 

Fleur leaned into Hermione to whisper in her ear. “Why is there a tent?”

Hermione smiled. “That’s the bedroom.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes, unsure if Hermione was joking or not, but when Hermione remained silent, Fleur let out a huff of disbelief and let her own smile build. 

“Brilliant.”

“I did tell you she’s one of a kind."

“You two lovebirds just make yourselves comfortable on the sofa, I’ll be right back.” Kat said.

The “sofa” was two large, lime green, wooden crates pressed together with a long cyan colored cushion spreading across the top. They sat down, their legs touching from the limited space. 

“When you said one of a kind, I was expecting her to be smart, not all of this.” Fleur said, as she waved her hand around to gesture to their surroundings.

“Well, she is smart. Perhaps even the smartest person I know.”

“Smarter than you? Smarter than me?”

“Easily.” She seemed to realize what she had just said and backtracked. “No offense meant, only she’s quite bright.”

“She must be, if she’s smarter than me.” Fleur teased. 

They were speaking in hushed tones, and so did not notice when Kat returned holding a tray of tea, and what looked to be a cockroach kebab. Fleur, for the second time that morning, found herself speechless. Kat placed the tray on the coffee table, an old door placed on top of two more wooden crates, and sat down in a normal, wooden chair across from the two witches.

“Oh thank you, Kat. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the cockroaches, I’ve just heard from a healer I’m to stay away from any meat. Fleur, though, totally can!” 

Hermione reached out to squeeze Fleur’s bicep in encouragement and gave her a wicked smile.

“That’s a shame Hermione! I cooked them just the way you like. No matter. Fleur, dear, take one, go on!”

She thrust the platter in front of Fleur’s face, causing her eyes to widen. She looked over at a smirking Hermione in a silent plea that seemed to fall on deaf ears. She gulped. Her mother had taught her at a young age to always accept when a host or hostess offered. If it weren’t for these lessons, and the subsequent nagging voice that lived in Fleur’s mind in situations of blatant impropriety, she would have turned her nose to the food and insisted on only having the tea. As it were, she felt compelled to reach out and grab a stick, holding the end between her thumb and forefinger with what she hoped was an excited face. 

She gave it an experimental sniff. It was revolting. Fleur hid a retch with a cough. She glanced over to Hermione, who looked as though she was in physical pain from the effort of not bursting out laughing. Meanwhile, Kat looked on with excitement. 

Swallowing her disgust, Fleur brought the kebab to her mouth. She was about to take a bite when Hermione grabbed her wrist with a strong grip. 

“Oh god, Fleur I didn’t think you were going to eat it!”

“Hermione where did you find this one! Really child, why would you eat that?”

Fleur, still reeling, placed the skewer back on the platter. She looked between the two other women with a look of confusion

“You offered. It would be rude not to, no?”

“What a load of crap. Tell me to stuff it next time.” 

She withdrew her want from her inside her robe, banished the kebabs, and summoned from the kitchen a platter of muffins, breads, and oddly, oranges. 

Fleur felt as though she should defend herself further, but Hermione, who’s hand was still wrapped around Fleur’s arm, gave her a small shake of her head.

“Kat,” Hermione began, “We were wondering if you could talk about the warding practices of the Indigenous Peoples of Newfoundland. You received the documents I sent you yesterday, right?”

“Oh yes, yes. I got them alright. Real interesting case you got there. Almost makes me want to head on over there myself. Of course, there is the farm to think about, so I can’t, sadly. Could you imagine 178 hifflers growing without supervision! Perhaps there’s a spell that could keep them in line. Remind me in 2.3 months Hermione, would you? Wait, what were we talking about?”

“Newfoundland warding practices.”

“Ah! Right. I take it you both are familiar with the Pictish method?” The pair nodded. “Most English and European witches and wizards believe this is the only way to ward an area. But this isn’t true. I once worked a site down the road where we were examining a recently unearthed settlement from around the 1100s. A worker was in the middle of casting a simple severing charm to cut through a small branch when he was startled by a bear: his spell went several feet to the right and sliced right through one of the pillars.”

“I’m sorry, a bear? Is that not dangerous?” Fleur interrupted.

“What? Oh, it was only a black bear. Hardly a threat- we weren’t in its territory.”

“Naturally.” Hermione said as she glanced at Fleur with a slight uptick of her mouth that betrayed her amusement. 

“Where was I? Oh yes, so there we were fully expecting to see the dissolution of the warding perimeter, you saw how that looks at the Battle of Hogwarts I believe?, when _absolutely nothing happened._ We waited nearly ten minutes, but still nothing. Then another worker stupidly tried to enter the perimeter and got instantly blasted backwards. Despite one of the pillars being destroyed, the area’s protections were still warded.”

Kat suddenly got up, displaying an agileness that surprised Fleur. She walked briskly away from them without so much as a glance, nevermind a verbal explanation, and disappeared behind one of the many doors. Fleur turned to Hermione and mouthed “what?”.

Hermione just smiled and shrugged. “Who knows. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

Sure enough, Kat reappeared holding a spiral notebook, a pen, and, for a reason unknown to Fleur, a stalk of mint. 

“Right-o, eat this!” She said, thrusting the mint in Hermione’s face.

“Kat, are you saying I have bad breath?”

“Why would you think that?” Kat said, genuinely confused.

“No reason.” 

“You’re a strange one, Hermione Granger. Don’t worry, it’s part of your charm!”

“That’s perhaps the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me Kat.”

“That can’t be right. I called you socially inept just the other month!” 

“My mistake, the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

In a show of appeasement, Hermione took a bit of the mint, chewing slowly, swallowing, and opening her mouth to show Kat, who nodded in approval.

“Too true! Now, focus my dear, this is important!” She uncapped the pen and opened the notebook to a fresh page. “The Beothuk peoples used a system of warding that created a symbiotic relationship amongst the pillars. Unlike Pictish warding where circles emanate from each pillar, there were paths of magic drawn to each of the other pillars. So a system like what we had before would look like this.”

“If one of these pillars was destroyed,” She flicked her wand wordlessly to erase one of the circles and its corresponding lines, “the system wouldn’t shut down completely because the magic can still flow through the lines and pillars. It may be slightly smaller, but the core area is still protected.”

“I thought this was only theoretical? It’s not in any of the research I’ve read.” Fleur said.

“I assume you read predominately European publications?”

Fleur frowned. “No, I read the best rune and warding journals.”

“But how do you determine what is ‘best’?”

“It’s an established fact that Runing Practices and Warding Weekly are the two premier journals in the field.”

Kat, who looked to be enjoying herself, now leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees as she looked Fleur directly in the eye. “And just who establishes that fact hmm? The field is dominated by Europeans.”

“There’s diversity! There are even plenty of ‘half-breeds,’” Fleur mimed air quotes to show her disapproval with the term, “that are a part of the board.”

“There were, that’s true. Although surely you must have noticed they’ve all left? And even if they were still there, all of them were _European_. There was no diversity of ideas!”

Fleur frowned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Kept rather hush hush. They claim to have left voluntarily but who knows? Anyway, I digress. This has been the defacto method of warding for centuries amongst the indigenous peoples of America. It’s plain, stupid, racism that has stopped you and others from getting access to the practice.”

“Kat, why haven’t you told me about this before?” Hermione said. 

“You never asked, dear.”

Hermione thought it was awfully hypocritical of Kat to complain about the lack of visibility of traditional warding practices, while simultaneously keeping them close to heart, but she knew better to antagonize the older witch who, at times, could get rather defensive. Instead, she allowed the argument to drop, and elbowed Fleur in the side to convey as much. 

“Well thank you for telling us.”

“You’re most welcome!”

“If the system is as secure as you say, how could it be accidentally set off?” Fleur said, her face scrunched in confusion. When Hermione looked at her now, she couldn’t help the dopey smile that adorned her face. 

“Oh, it wouldn’t! These systems are set up to be virtually invincible if left to their own devices!”

“Are- are you saying that _someone_ purposefully attacked the wards?”

“I suppose I am!” Kat said cheerfully.

Fleur and Hermione exchanged a mortified look. 

“So we’re dealing with someone who wanted to cause that attack?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Who knows what they were planning? But did someone do this? Yes, certainly,” She paused as she tapped her forefinger on her lips in a thoughtful motion, “I should think they’d have to be knowledgeable on such warding practices as well.”

“‘ow knowledgeable?” Fleur asked.

“They’d at least have to know _what_ the system was or they’d blow themselves up! Beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t be sure.”

“How many people know about these kinds of wards?” Hermione questioned.

“How should I know!”

“You have to have some idea? Just a ballpark?” Hermione felt desperate. They had made such little progress, and were now finding themselves once again stonewalled.

Fleur looked confused at the term, but thankfully had the wherewithal to keep her mouth firmly shut. 

“Hm, gun to my head? Maybe 50?”

“Great. Extremely helpful. You don’t happen to have their addresses do you?” Hermione said sarcastically as she clenched her hand into a fist. Fleur reached over and put a comforting hand over.

“Thank you Kat,” Fleur said, “you have been very ‘elpful.”

Hermione felt a familiar tight constriction of anger in her chest. Logically, she knew Kat had been nothing but helpful, but she still felt as if she was trying to solve a puzzle blindfolded. Her fingernails dug crescent shaped divots into her palm as she tried to fight down the desire to snap at her long time friend. It wasn’t Kat’s fault. She took several deep breaths. Fleur’s thumb had begun to rub circles across the back of Hermione’s hand as she looked at the younger witch in concern. Hermione closed her eyes. In, out. Pause two seconds. In, out. Pause two seconds. She didn’t notice Kat, who had silently poured another cup of tea for the woman before giving Fleur a knowing look and a less-than-subtle glance at the steaming drink. 

“‘Ermione, ‘ere, ‘ave some tea.” Fleur said softly. 

Hermione nearly jumped at the proximity of the other woman’s voice. She was speaking directly into her ear, close enough that her breath tickled her skin. The British witch was reluctant to shrug off Fleur’s grasp to reach for the mug, and so elected instead to reach with her left hand and shakily bring it to her lips. 

“Kat, ‘as anything interesting ‘appened recently?” Fleur had torn her eyes from Hermione’s face to focus on Kat instead. 

Kat coughed. “Yes, yes. Have you girls heard about the Burlington attack?”

“Burlington, Vermont?” Fleur asked.

“Yes! I could hardly believe it. The muggles are convinced it was a mass shooter, bless them. Not sure how MACUSA is going to swing that one; maybe have some poor guy take the fall.”

Fleur had been hoping for a lighthearted conversation: perhaps about how the local grocery had stopped stocking Kat’s favorite cereal, or the newest pop star in the Americas. She supposed she should have known better than to ask such a vague question to the eccentric woman. But perhaps the other woman knew Hermione better than she, as Hermione had seemingly calmed down enough to speak in a level, curious tone.

“It was a magical attack then?”

“Yes, keep up now! I already said that.” She hadn’t. “New-York Clarion says it was, get this, a centaur attack! Can you believe it!”

“Centaurs? That close to humans?” Fleur said, doubt lacing her voice. 

“Ridiculous isn’t it! But they’re convinced. There were arrows left everywhere. I admit it does paint a certain picture, could you imagine a wizard degrading themselves enough to use a bow and arrow!”

“Could they be getting framed?”

Kat shook her head as she spoke. “Who would want to frame the centaurs? What could you possibly gain from that?”

“It seems to be the only logical conclusion.” Fleur argued. “They’re a peaceful species, I doubt they would attack unprompted like that. Particularly the Vermont herd: they have plenty of space over there.”

“How do you know about centaurs in America?” Hermione said, surprised.

“I have to. They’re one of the 50 largest herds in the world.”

Hermione stared. “You know all 50? Why?”

Fleur tilted her head. “I’m the Delacour ‘eiress, of course I had to learn them all.”

An heiress. Fleur’s refined nature started to make a bit more sense. 

“You’re a Delacour!” Kat said with no small amount of excitement.

“Oui.”

“I knew your grandmother, oh, maybe 30 years ago? I was working to sedate an aggressive Kelpie outside of Nice. I had unknowingly stumbled upon your clan’s land!”

Fleur blinked. “How did you get through the boundary?”

“Not a clue. Your grandmother was in a sour mood about it for _days_. That woman has a short fuse and a long memory. She kept nagging me.”

“You getting nagged? What a role reversal.” Hermione said drily.

“Don’t get smart with me girl.”

“I’m nearly 30.”

“You’ll always be a girl to me.”

“Did my grandmére ever find out how you got across the boundary?” Fleur said, slightly impatiently.

“You know, I don’t remember. Anyway, as I was saying, the kelpie had dragged a young boy under. Completely out of control.”

“Kat, you were talking about the attack in Vermont.”

“And about the boundary.” Fleur added.

“One track mind you have there eh?” She spoke to Fleur, and ignored Hermione. “I can respect that! I like to think I have one as well. Although, I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of having one, now that I think about it. Strange. Your grandmother cleared me of all charges. I’m an honorary Delacour now! We’re family!”

“She said you were an honorary Delacour?”

Fleur highly doubted this. Her grandmere was the pinnacle of decorum and a stickler for the rules. To accept an outsider without Veela blood, and it was clear that Kat had not one drop, was as absurd as Headmistress McGonnogal bursting into song in the middle of a lecture. 

“Well, not in as many words, but I’m excellent at reading between the lines!” She emphasized her statement with, as Hermione later told Fleur, finger guns. 

“Kat, the attack.” Hermione saved Fleur from answering.

“Right. Twenty-two dead: 9 wizards, and 13 muggles. I believe they were attacked in a bar.”

“Centaurs in a bar? That doesn’t seem likely.” Hermione said. 

“I have no doubt that the centaurs are getting framed.” Fleur said with confidence as she nodded along to Hermione’s comment.

“How can you be so sure?” Kat asked, leaning back against the chair. Fleur had a sudden feeling of being a student suddenly put on the spot by their professor. 

“Centaurs aren’t going to go out of their way to attack innocents. And a bar of all places? Laughable.”

“You don’t think the policies could push them over the edge?” Kat prodded, her face unchanged.

“What policies?” Hermione interjected.

“MACUSA just announced a new bill that would significantly push back the herd’s territory.” Kat explained.

“Why would they do that? Just to get more land? Is it even in their jurisdiction?” Hermione asked.

“No, it’s not at all in their jurisdiction, but that has never stopped the government before, and I don’t see it stopping them now.” Fleur said.

“The whole thing was very hush-hush.” Kat added. She was now looking at Fleur with approval.

A large thump sounded from what Fleur assumed was the backyard, interrupting the discussion. Although, as she thought more about it, it was just as likely the sound had come from one of the _many_ wings of the bizarre house. 

She was spared from speculation when Kat announced, in a squeal, “That’ll be the Scarpud! They’re finally mature!”

The portly woman had once again jumped up from her seat, although this time she managed to stop herself and look back towards the two witches still seated. 

“Hermione, I know this will be hard for you to hear, but I’m afraid the plidders will have to wait for another day.” Kat’s voice was one of morose sincerity, as she looked at Hermione with a forlorn expression.

Hermione, whose lips were twitching, barely managed to contain her amusement. “Oh no! I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

Kat nodded seriously. “It’s a shame. Well, I gotta go, you both do whatever it is you need to do.”

She once again disappeared behind a door. Hermione let out a snort of amusement. Fleur was worried her own face was going to be stuck in a state of perpetual confusion. 

“Come on then, let’s head back home. Ah, to the cottage I mean.”

Fleur managed to nod. “Your friend is quite…”

“Weird? Yes.”

Hermione offered no other explanation, and Fleur didn’t ask. The brunette held out her arm for Fleur to grasp, but the French woman shook her head. 

“It’s impertinent to disparate in someone’s ‘ome.”

“Ah, of course- my apologies, your grace.” Hermione swept down into a deep bow, theatrically flourishing her hand as she went. “Please let me know what I can do to make up for this most egregious of errs.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. Then, her face transformed into a devilish look that Hermione did not particularly like the look of. 

The blonde walked past Hermione towards the front door, as she called over her shoulder with a wink, “I can think of a few things you can do to make up for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done with the ward talk I promise. Listen, I asked a while ago if you guys wanted me to gloss over it, and you said no. So, in short, it's all your fault and is not at all mine. Obviously.  
> D:
> 
> Thank you beans for reading through again! ily. what?
> 
> Also! this chapter tipped my total page count past 100! That's nuts. Thank you for reading!!


	15. When the birds are fledged and flown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh... HI! I'm so sorry this took so long. It did not want to be written. Good news is that I have a bunch of the next chapter already written so I don't see it taking *checks notes* 4 months to update again.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me!! 
> 
> HUGE thank you to rice_and_beans for beta'ing this chapter. You're the BEST- ily <3
> 
> hope you enjoy!

They landed softly in front of the cottage door as the sun was just reaching its zenith. A slight grumble of her stomach reminded Hermione of her reluctance to eat anything Kat had offered. The woman, while hospitable, was not known for her culinary prowess, and much like with Hagrid’s teas, Hermione often elected to avoid eating her “delicacies.” 

“I don’t have much food here, would you like to go out?”

“Sure, do you have a place in mind?”

“There’s this place on the water, they serve the best lobster rolls in Maine.”

“What are lobster rolls?”

A large grin overtook Hermione’s face. “Oh, just a local delicacy. They’re highly revered.”

Fleur looked down at her jeans, pressed collared shirt, white sneakers, and said seriously, “Should I change? Am I too casual?”

Hermione snorted. She gave Fleur a thoughtful look and used the opportunity to look the other woman up and down slowly. “No, I think you might be ok.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Might be? It is always better to be overdressed than under, ‘ermione.”

“Really, you’ll be fine. I’m wearing this.” She shrugged her shoulders and snapped her hands downward, indicating towards the sweatshirt and ripped jeans she was sporting.

“Alright. Shall we apparate there?”

“No, there’s not a good place to apparate to. I’ll drive us.”

“You have a… car?”

“Yes? Kind of hard to do anything around here without one,” She teased.

Hermione led Fleur into the standalone garage. Fleur's eyes widened apprehensively as she looked at the vehicle. As a prominent member of the French wizarding society, she knew of these… automobiles, even touched one! This one, however, looked different from the sedans she had been accustomed to seeing. It was sleeker, cleaner, and sexier in a way Fleur didn’t think an automobile could be. 

“Are you sure this is safe?” Fleur asked as she hesitantly opened the passenger door.

“This ol’ thing? Yes, these ol’ girls were built to last. It’s an old Karmann Ghia from 1964,” She noticed how Fleur’s eyes seemed to glaze over like Harry and Ron’s once did when she described the intricacies of spell design and elected to spare the other woman, “It’s only a five minute drive anyway.”

Fleur lowered herself carefully into the passenger seat. She was mildly surprised at how comfortable it was. The car was warm from the August heat, the cover of the garage not enough to fight off the warmth of the day. 

“Merlin, it’s hot,” Hermione said. Without another word, she took off her sweatshirt in a fluid motion and flung it blindly into the backseat. The action pulled up the high neck tank top enough to reveal a band of pale skin at the waist. Fleur snapped her eyes upwards, only to find the top did a superb job at accentuating Hermione’s toned shoulders. Her gaze followed Hermione as she reached with her right hand, grabbed a length of cloth with some sort of metal attached, and dragged it diagonally across her body, attaching it to the seat of the car with an audible click. Hermione looked over at Fleur expectantly, then blinked in realization. 

“Oh, right, you wouldn’t know. This is a seatbelt,” She snapped the cloth band in emphasis, “it stops us from colliding with the dash. Here, I’ll help.”

She un-clicked her seatbelt and stretched over Fleur. 

She fumbled with the band but eventually grasped it and pulled it across Fleur’s body. Fleur was determined to keep her eyes locked on the dash and not on the newly exposed skin that was so tantalizing close to her. She failed. How could she not? Fleur thought she could feel the warmth radiating off Hermione, and although she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, she drew comfort from the feeling, from the proximity. Her eyes dipped to the bronzed skin, tan despite the summer spent in Scotland. She caught her wandering eyes and quickly diverted her gaze to the suddenly very interesting lever attached to the door Fortunately, Hermione seemed none the wiser to Fleur’s attention as she fastened her seatbelt and leaned back in her seat. 

Hermione turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. It was louder than Fleur had been expecting, indeed she hadn’t been expecting any noise at all; the sound caused her to jump slightly in her seat and her blue eyes to widen in near panic. She glared at the ignition with distrust. 

“That little key does that?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Hermione shifted the car into reverse. She twisted her body around and draped her right arm on the headrest behind Fleur’s head. Fleur became acutely aware of just how toned Hermione’s shoulders were. Her gaze shifted to Hermione's jaw and across to her lips. When the car was clear of the driveway, Hermione turned back to face forward, pausing briefly midway when she caught Fleur’s stare. 

“What?”

“Hmm?” Fleur’s eyes flicked back to Hermione’s eyes, which had since moved to the open road ahead. 

“Why are you looking at me?”

“No reason, just… impressed with your drive ability.”

“Driving,” Hermione said, amused.

“Oui, that.”

They chatted idly as they drove, both knowing they had to discuss what Kat had told them, but neither wanting to ruin what they were each now independently considering a vacation. Fleur had been especially impressed with the radio and flicked repeatedly between the few stations they had access to. 

The drive took them past the downtown, which operated as the “city” for several nearby towns, and consisted of two parallel streets lined with brick buildings no larger than four stories tall. People were milling about outside: locals going about their everyday chores mixed with tourists that were easily spotted. Fleur was surprised when several locals waved at Hermione as they passed. 

“Are you friends with them?”

“Not really. Acquaintances I suppose. We all know each other."

They reached a gravel parking lot situated at the end of a peninsula. Atop a small hill sat what looked to Fleur as nothing more than a glorified shack. The white paint on the trim was chipped, the shingles were in desperate need of replacing, and the roof looked as though it was one storm away from collapsing. 

“Is it magical?”

“No, it does look like it uses it though, doesn’t it?”

Hermione pulled into one of the few spots available. Cars from other states spattered the parking lot. 

“It’s a bit of a tourist trap, but the view and the food are worth it.”

Hermione put the car into park and leaped out. Fleur made a motion to open her door, but paused when Hermione motioned for her to stop. The British witch had rushed around the front of the car to open Fleur’s side for her. Fleur was bemused as to why she did, and even more confused about why Hermione looked so self-satisfied afterward. It must be a muggle thing.

Hermione offered a hand to Fleur to assist her as she climbed out of the car. Fleur once again took notice of the small calluses. Once Fleur was safely out, Hermione didn’t drop her hand, and Fleur made no effort to persuade her to. They walked hand in hand up to the building. As they grew nearer, it became clear that distance had not been deceptively unkind to the shack. It was as decrepit-looking up close as it was at a distance. Fleur turned her head towards Hermione.

“Don’t look at me like that. You should know better than to judge a book by its cover.” 

“Even if that cover can barely be called a cover?”

“Especially then,” Hermione said as she squeezed Fleur’s hand. 

The French witch felt a warmth spread across her body at the simple action. 

“Order 323!” A garbled voice called out through the loudspeaker that sat on the top of the building. 

The front door, a screen with several small rips, was as shabby looking as the rest of the building, but when it opened and more clearly showed the inside, Fleur was pleasantly surprised to see a clean, well-organized interior. It certainly wasn’t about to be featured in any architecture magazines, but it did hold a certain charm that Fleur had to admit was endearing. 

They had barely entered when “Hermione!” was shouted out from behind the counter. The owner of the voice was a kind, attractive looking woman. 

“Casey! How ya been?” Hermione said, a wide smile plastered across her face. 

“Same old, same old, you want the usual?”

“Sure do, but make it two, will ya?”

The woman’s attention shifted to Fleur, who had just walked in from behind Hermione. 

“And  _ who _ is this?”

“This is my friend, Fleur.”

“‘Ello,” Fleur said as she gave a small wave. 

“Where did you find this one, Hermione? Right off a Vogue cover shoot?”

Fleur, who was normally poised under scrutinizing gazes, found herself shifting uncomfortably as the woman eyed her up and down. Hermione, meanwhile, just chuckled.

“She’s an old friend from school.”

“Another Brit eh?”

Hermione scrunched up her nose as she said, “French.” 

Fleur dropped her jaw in mock outrage. “What is that look for? We French are far superior to the English.”

“Ah! Something we can agree with!” The woman said as she pointed her pen towards Fleur. “Since your  _ friend _ ,” she stressed, “apparently wasn’t raised right, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Casey, at your service.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just get cooking will ya? We’ll be outside.” 

“Sure thing, babe.” She shot Hermione a wink and walked into the adjoining kitchen. 

“We don’t pay?” Fleur asked. 

“Well,” Hermione had flushed pink, “we would but, ah, Casey won’t let me. I did a favor for her and now she never lets me pay. One time I tried to and I found out she prepaid my tab at Rosie’s for the next two weeks.” 

“What was the favor?”

“Deer were eating from her vegetable garden. I sprayed the area with an experimental chemical I got through work.” Hermione looked around to make sure no one was watching them. Once satisfied she added in a low whisper, “it was just a simple ward- no pests are allowed in the garden now.” 

“Ah, so you’re not allowed in anymore?” Fleur said with a teasing smirk. 

“Oh no, I’m allowed in. You though, well perhaps we should pay a visit to her garden just to check.”

They walked outside, this time through the side door on the other side of the main entrance. There were dozens of picnic tables spread across a graveled lot. 

They sat on a vacant red picnic table, Fleur taking considerable care to avoid sitting in the dried memory of a seagull. She had thought she did a good job disguising her disgust but was quickly proven wrong by the amused, knowing look Hermione gave her. 

They chatted idly until Casey came out of the building holding two heaping plastic baskets with gingham wax paper. 

“Casey, I can’t believe you brought it straight to me, what service!” 

“You’re just lucky I wanted some fresh air.”

“There’s no need to pretend it wasn’t just another excuse to see me, love.”

“And,” Casey said over Hermione, “you better eat quick, Jack is here.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione muttered under her breath, too quietly for Casey to hear but just barely loud enough for Fleur to catch.

“Thought you might like a heads up on that one.” 

“Ta,” Hermione groaned. 

“Isn’t Jack your friend?” Fleur asked after Casey had gone back inside. 

“Yes. Probably my best friend,” she admitted, “but don’t you dare tell him that!” She brandished a fry and pointed it menacingly at Fleur in warning. 

Fleur reached out and nabbed it from Hermione’s grasp, shoving it in her mouth before Hermione could even open her mouth in protest. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Fleur said after she had swallowed. 

Fleur looked down at her food. Then looked at the lack of cutlery. She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m supposed to eat this with my hands?”

“All part of the fun!” Hermione said enthusiastically. 

Hermione picked up the overflowing lobster roll in front of her, seemingly uncaring of the grease that now covered her hands, and took an impressively large bite. If it had been anyone else, Fleur was sure she would have felt put off by the display, but with Hermione, she felt nothing more than amusement. 

Hesitantly she took a bite of her own and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. Her eyes closed as she chewed, appreciating the flavors, and attempted to hold off a moan of enjoyment. When she reopened them, she saw Hermione looking intently at her, a broad smile across her face. 

“Good, yeah?” Hermione asked. 

“It’s acceptable, yes.” 

“Oh, bullshi-”

“Hermione Granger! If my eyes don’t deceive me!” A booming voice interrupted from behind her. 

She grimaced at Fleur before turning around and jumping out of her seat to embrace the man. 

“Jack!” 

“I thought I saw you on the rocks, but then I thought, there’s no way my Hermione would have come back and  _ not _ have told me.”

He gave her a stern look that was so out of place on his normally cheerful face, that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. 

“It’s only a quick trip. I figured you were working,” Hermione tried.

“Pfft, I think you just wanted,” he turned to Fleur, “this beautiful woman to yourself. Since Hermione here is so rude, I’ll introduce myself. Jack Williams, lobstahman extraordinaire.”

Fleur smirked. “Fleur Delacour, a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

He sat down heavily and without grace next to Hermione, knocking the table with his knee as he went. 

“So how has work been English? Ya been finding the mitochondria and all that?”

Fleur, who had no idea what he was talking about, looked blankly at Hermione who gave her a look that very plainly said to be quiet. 

“Not quite Jack. I’ve actually been exploring the-” 

“Listen, I love you like you were my sistah but I don’t actually wanna heah about PH levels and electrons. Give me the cliffs notes will ya?”

“Research good. Weather bad. Coworker nice.” 

“Now you’re talkin’ my language!” He exclaimed. “And is this yah coworkah or yah… friend?” He waggled his eyebrows wildly, forcing Hermione to punch him with an impressive show of force in the shoulder. 

“Coworker you ass.” 

“I’m not your friend, ‘ermione?” Fleur teased. 

Hermione turned a faint pink, much to the French woman’s- and Jack’s- delight. 

“Oh ho ho, a friend eh? You haven’t had one of those sin-”

“You’re my friend aren’t you Jack?”

“Well I’m your friend, but I’m not your  _ friend _ .” 

“I fail to see the difference,” Hermione deadpanned.

Jack opened his mouth to no doubt say  _ exactly _ what he had meant, but was interrupted by Hermione, who was keen to change the subject to virtually anything else under the sun. 

“Lobstering been good this year?”

Jack happily accepted the change in subject and went on a rather lengthy rant on the effects of an unexpected current this past week. Fleur understood next to nothing but enjoyed both how relaxed Hermione looked in his presence and the lilt to Jack’s deep voice.

Hermione looked beautiful in the bright summer light. Her brown eyes shined brighter than they normally did, a honey color not normally visible highlighted the Chesnut. This day, despite their work’s seriousness, had only served to draw Fleur in closer to the web Hermione was unknowingly spinning. She had often thought about Hermione in the years after the war; wondering where the younger witch had gone, what she was doing, and if she was alone. She had always assumed she was alone. But here, in just a day, she had begun to see the family Hermione had created for herself. A family that supported her. Cared for her. Loved her. It was with a pang that Fleur realized she was not a part of this found family. _Maybe_ , a voice thought, _maybe one day I could be._

“-room be right back. Play nice, Jack.”

Fleur blinked back to the present.

Jack had turned serious: it was an odd look on him, unnatural and slightly disconcerting. He leaned forward on his forearms that rested on the table and stared intently into Fleur’s eyes.

“Listen, I dunno what your intentions are, but you better not break her heart.”

She was surprised at the forwardness. There was no preamble, no buildup, no warning whatsoever.

“I don’t intend to break her heart.”

“No one intends to, do they?”

“We aren’t together.” Her voice had steeled as her thrall extended itself to wrap around her in a secure cocoon of comfort. 

“Do you want to be?”

Jack was not one to beat around the bush. He was a man of action: if there was a task to do, he did it; if there was a question to be asked, he asked it.

“I-” Fleur wanted to lie to him. She had a particular talent for it, she could always make people believe whatever she wanted them to, and she was sure Jack would be no different than the rest. Yet something stopped her from doing so. A part of her wanted to confide in someone, as she had not yet done, even if that person was close to Hermione, and so she answered simply, “Yes.”

His gaze was unwavering, but didn’t last long: a few beats more and his face relaxed into the familiar genial smile that was near expected of him. 

“Do you have a plan?”

“A plan for what?”

“To get the girl!”

“No, I don’t want to pressure ‘er.”

“Listen, Fleur right? I’m gonna be straight with you. Hermione is terrible with her emotions. I don’t know the details of the war she was in, but she struggles a  _ lot _ with it. She can barely understand her own emotions, nevermind someone else's. If you want something to happen, you’re going to have to make the first move.”

“Theoretically, if I were to… make the first move, what would you recommend?”

“If it were me? Five dozen roses and a chocolate fountain.” He grinned. “But I’m not you and Hermione isn’t the kind of person that would appreciate something like that anyway. Just make it personal, make it mean something.”

She nodded. Fleur was not known for her bravery, she would rather sit back and observe until she could make an educated guess on what the best course of action would be. Unfortunately, in this scenario, there was no one and nothing to watch. She would have to find the courage she had never had before. Privately, she had theorized that if she had been a student at Hogwarts she would have been either a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff, perhaps even a Slytherin, but certainly not a Gryffindor. She wasn’t nearly brash nor courageous enough. 

She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Hermione returning holding two chocolate cake-like things that were nearly the size of her face.

“I brought whoopie pies! Jack wasn’t too much of a nuisance was he?” Hermione asked Fleur as she sat down next to her. 

“I am joy Hermione Granger!” He put on his best effort of a British accent, which was unsurprisingly terrible, and said, “I’m a right pleasure. A cheery good chap!”

“Jack, that’s insulting.”

“What is? I’ll have you know I know my way ‘round a kettle. Can make a propah cuppah, I can.”

“Please stop, I think my ears are starting to bleed. Fleur, can you see blood?”

Fleur leaned close to Hermione and brushed aside her hair to better see the other woman’s ear. She was close enough that her breath tickled Hermione, causing her a shiver to run down her spine. Fleur scrunched her face in concentration. 

“There is!” She turned to Jack, “‘ow could you! To your friend!”

“Oh, I see how it is. You two are just gonna gang up o-”

“Your  _ best _ friend Jack! The betrayal!” Hermione leaned her head on Fleur’s shoulder. 

Unconsciously, Fleur slouched slightly to the left to better accommodate Hermione, causing the British witch’s head to instead fall in the crook of Fleur’s neck. 

Jack suddenly straightened and rummaged about his pocket. He wore a triumphant grin when he pulled out what looked to Fleur to be a block of some sort, but that Hermione knew was a flip phone. The latter opened her mouth to protest, already knowing what Jack intended to do, but before she could do so he held up a finger. 

“HOLD IT!” He bellowed loud enough for several other neighboring tables to look their way in annoyance. 

He held up the phone and took a picture, startling Fleur with the chatter of the shutter sound. 

“This will look great for your Christmas card, Hermione!” He exclaimed. 

“I don’t do Christmas cards, Jack.”

“Not yet you don’t, but with a photo like this how could you not?” 

He flipped it around to show them. Fleur looked at the still image. Hermione was looking at Jack with slight annoyance, while Fleur stared at Hermione with a fond expression on her face. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought they were a couple. 

“I’ll send it to you. Don’t worry, Hermione.” As she moved to object he continued, “to your email, I know how unreliable you are with your phone.” 

“A man that thinks of everything? How lucky am I.”

Jack screwed his eyes shut and put up a finger to silence the two women. Fleur turned to Hermione, confused, but she only shrugged her shoulders. 

“What are you doing?” Fleur asked.

“Ah! Silence- I need to remember this moment!” 

The two witches sat in silence until a second later his eyes reopened and a triumphant smile spread across his face. 

“On this day, Hermione Granger said she was lucky to have me. An honor of the highest caliber. I think I may tell my grandchildren of this moment.”

Hermione, to Fleur’s dismay, moved her head off her shoulder to reach across the table and smack Jack in the shoulder. 

“OW!” 

“Oh shush there’s no way that hurt.”

“It hurt my ego, Hermione.”

“Anything could hurt your ego, Jack.”

“That’s not true!”

“You once got mad because I said you had made the eggs over medium instead of over easy.”

Jack slammed his hand down on the wooden table. “Because they  _ were _ over easy!”

“ANYWAY,” Hermione raised her voice, trying to avoid what was a familiar argument, “anything else interesting happen since I left?”

“‘Round here? Not much. Remember Mr. Curbin? He actually left his wife, can ya believe it?” 

“She doesn’t deserve that,” Hermione said as she shook her head, “but it isn’t surprising.”

“Anyone with eyes and ears could have seen that coming. Hell, even James,” he turned to Fleur, “he’s half deaf and half-blind said it would happen!”

“James knows more than he lets on,” Hermione added.

Jack nodded. “No doubt about that.”

“Anything else?”

“Nah,” he paused, reconsidering, “actually, did ya heah about the attack ovah in Burlington?”

Fleur and Hermione exchanged a look. Silently, Hermione pleaded for Fleur to pretend to be ignorant.

“We’ve been working… remotely. Little access to news and whatnot,” Fleur answered.

“It was recent- some idiots shot up a bar. Killed some and left a bunch of people wicked injured.”

“With guns?” Hermione asked.

Jack nodded, “Semi-automatics. Came in guns-a-blazin’ as far as anyone can tell. It’s been real hush hush I’ll tell ya.”

Before Hermione or Fleur could respond the conversation was cut off by Jack’s phone ringing. He glanced down and smiled apologetically at the two women before saying, 

“Shit, I really gotta run. You remembah Jessie ovah on the mainland? She’s callin’ me back finally. It was nice seeing you- Hermione, don’t be a stranger!” 

He gave her a hurried hug and ran off toward the parking lot. 

Fleur turned to Hermione, concerned. 

“Even the muggles know?”

Hermione noticed a man trying, and failing, to subtly stare at them from the adjacent table. 

“Let’s talk at home, yeah?” Hermione asked, already standing up and reaching her hand toward the French woman.

* * *

Her eyes flew open as a scream lodged itself in her throat, unable to escape. She tried to take a breath but found her throat was too constricted to take one in. Desperately, she opened and closed her mouth.

Her shirt was plastered to her skin, wet with sweat and suddenly so suffocating that she clawed at it with clumsy hands, incapable of finding the dexterity to take it off. The walls of the room began to close in, boxing ever nearer as she desperately tried to escape. Her vision blurred and black spots started to splay across her vision. Eventually, she managed to pull the shirt overhead and gasped a breath in relief. Not a second later the scream that had been caught were released. She couldn’t hear it. Something was crawling on the surface of her arm. She scratched at it with fervor until long scratches bled and the blood that blossomed forward dripped down onto the white sheets. 

Hermione didn’t register the door flying open, nor Fleur’s horrified face gazing upon the half-naked, bloodied witch, nor did she notice when Fleur approached carefully but with haste and dropped to her knees at the side of the bed. 

“GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET OFF OF ME!” Hermione screamed, clawing at her forearm without recognizing the pain it was causing her. Her voice was strained and terrified. It sounded exactly as it had the nights spent in Shell Cottage when Fleur had been the one to comfort her from her terrors. It seemed the task was once again placed on her shoulders and she lept to rise to the occasion. 

The Frenchwoman grabbed Hermione’s right hand to stop it from scratching but Hermione, who was still shaking, tried to fling her arm free of the hold.

“Hermione, you’re safe. You’re safe.” Fleur chanted, for whose benefit she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure when she had started crying, but fat tears fell freely from her eyes- a direct contrast to the dry but terrified eyes of the Brit that still stared in horror at the scar across her forearm. 

“GET IT OFF. Please, no more, no more. Please.” Her voice, which had dropped from a scream to no more than a gentle whisper dropped the desperation and succumbed to holding a certain inevitability as if she had come to terms with the torment.

She went still. Fleur was too frightened to release or lessen her grip, lest Hermione resume her assault, and so she hung on to the other woman’s wrists and rubbed small circles against them with her thumbs as she rocked softly forward and back. Again and again, they swirled, a steady rhythm perfectly in time with her assertions to Hermione that she was ok, that she was safe. Slowly, carefully, she positioned herself behind Hermione; holding the younger woman flush against her front as her arms wrapped around securely. 

Quietly, Fleur muttered a spell that surrounded them with the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore- effectively drowning out Hermione’s erratic hiccups and Fleur’s ragged breaths. Slowly, the light returned to Hermione’s eyes. Fleur expected her to jump out of her hold but was surprised when Hermione allowed herself to be held. They sat silently, listening to the sounds of the ocean and the light chirps of birds that promised that dawn was impending. 

Eventually, Hermione tried to speak. Her voice was scratchy, small, and just as heartbreaking as it had been 9 years ago. 

“I- I’m sorry ab-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Fleur interrupted. 

She was thankful when Hermione didn’t try to argue, instead just melted against Fleur and allowed Fleur’s strong arms to tighten comfortably around her. For how long they sat there Fleur wasn’t certain, but it was long enough that the sun had risen enough to peek in through the thin blinds covering the large window. The light was hazy, as if unsure if it truly wanted to disrupt the newfound peace of the room, much like it was the morning after that night,  _ the  _ night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH poor hermione.
> 
> What do you guys think is the deal with this Burlington attack?
> 
> Next up: we find out (some) of what happened in the aftermath of Black Mansion.
> 
> p.s Up until last chapter the names of the chapter have been lines from poem The Tide Rises The Tide Falls by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Guess where the name of this fic is from? xD  
> I don't think anyone has noticed so far, but if you have bonus points for you <3
> 
> ALSO- if you're into HP femslash and are 18 or older, come say hi and explore this ship and others: https://discord.gg/d4wgtA5jrA


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